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Inspired by Louisa Buck and her Saturday afternoon @firstsite talk all about the romanticism of Ray Island, @AnnaJCowen and I set off to explore the North Essex estuary wilds early on Sunday morning. The amorous element was lost when I emerged from the bedroom with my finest pair of cycling tights. Add in the cycling overlay shoes and Ray Island was the setting for It’s a Knockout rather than Fantasy Island.

Don’t fancy yours much.

But first – how the chuffers do you find Ray Island? We all know about Mersea and the tidal dangers of the Strood as you approach Oyster Central. The modern interweb was of little help in tracking down Louisa Buck’s mythical marsh. The ever helpful Essex Wildlife Trust spoke of:

“Negotiating a number of single plank bridges without hand rails.”

Which sounds a lot easier to read online that it actually is when compared to carrying a MTB whilst wearing a pair of ridiculous overlay shoes. Down towards the Hythe, past Rowhedge and through Fingringhoe. The Strood was playing a game of estuary poker with us, showing its hand of a clear run, yet leaving you suspecting that the tide was about to turn.

“Look! Look! There’s a number of single plank bridges without hand rails!”

…exclaimed the Girl.

She wasn’t wrong. Ray Island may have been eulogised by Louisa Buck as the inspiration for a liberal approach to art around these parts, but the reality is that the patch of land as you approach Mersea Island is a great big mud flap. And that’s not a euphemism, either.

Our entry point [fnar!] turned out to be a Day Trip by Mistake. The low tide allowed us access with the bicycles, negotiating ever-increasing sizes of tidal pools. It was the great outdoors version of the crazy end sequence to the Crystal Maze, where the contestants have to leap around like fools on large laser snakes and ladders board.

We became stranded after the third girly leap of faith. No man is an island (except the Isle of Man…) but here we were, within walking distance of Mersea Island, yet almost trapped in not so splendid isolation with the tide and time taking the piss.

Whoops.

A friendly figure of a gentleman appeared on the horizon of the marshland, purposefully striding towards us, and flapping around as though he has just found romance on Ray Island, and hadn’t caught crabs, either. Good effort, Sir.

Turns out that the Ray Island romantic was in fact a local Ranger. It wasn’t quite GET ORRRF MY LAND, but the possibility of a loaded shotgun underneath his brown leather tunic was a poker game of twist that I was prepared to take.

“We’re not from London, y’know!” I reasoned.

The Ranger escorted us back to the edges of the Strood, much in the same style that a Head Teacher frog marches the class fool back to the playground after a stern ticking off.

“I rather enjoyed Ray Island,”

…I remarked to the Girl.

“I found it all, y’know, rather romantic.”

My cycling tights were now knee deep in mud. The ridiculous cycling overlay shoes looked like a large pair of brown clogs. Make no mistake – I was a mucky pup. The Girl was keeping it clean and offered me a tissue, but not in the context that I had planned.

Plan B?

Go West. Go west to West Mersea.

Chapeau!

We trickled through the town and past the rich run of charity shops and towards the sea. I often remark that you can judge the character of a community by the quality of the charity shops. West Mersea is well heeled, but has perhaps seen better days. If it were a politician then it would be Ken Clarke.

We participated in the Sunday Bicycling Club ritual of enjoying an extremely strong coffee at a local cafe. Other early morning riders out for the run had also gathered for the caffeine kick to see them back to Sunny Colch. I counted five pairs of cycling tights, a couple of windbreakers and a very dirty helmet. Told you Ray Island was romantic.

We took in the Beach Hut stretch along the front, half-expecting to enter into a Morrissey video outtake. The temperature was dropping. Not so the activity inside the cycling tights. With the tide threatening to make Mersea our adopted home for the evening, it was time to tackle the Strood.

Safely across, and with no second thoughts about re-visiting the romanticism of Ray Island, Fingringhoe wasn’t far off. I know how to show a girl a good time, me.

We took in the beauty of St Andrew’s at Fingringhoe, timed to perfection in catching the in-between time of Morning Service and Even Song. What a splendid old building. Some may even call it romantic.

And then it was up the backside of the Colne, crossing at the Hythe and then a post-coital cleaning of the cycling tights back at base. Who said romance was dead? If Ray Island don’t turn you on, then you ‘aint got no switches.