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And so Sunday afternoon saw a birthday walk to Brightlingsea by mistake. Having had a balls up of an original birthday midweek (blame the modern interweb and a wasted working day) then it was decided to go Regal and celebrate twice. You don’t see much of Brenda down in Brightlingsea, mind.

It is a well-trodden path between Wivenhoe and Brightlingsea. Nope - it really is a well-trodden path between…

This is a stunning time in the season in which to explore the stretch out towards the Creek and beyond. The blossom is blooming and the first buds are starting to show through. Wivenhoe whispers (now there’s a blog waiting to happen…) have it that the first bluebells are already waking up in Wivenhoe Wood. But that’s for a midweek exploration…

But yeah - Brightlingsea. Never the twain, and all that. We really should have asked the good Scoop Scarpenter if he wanted us to hand deliver any copies of the Esteemed Organ of Truth and Justice on route to all those ‘surrounding villages.’

The stretch out towards the Creek was busy by mid-morning. Walkers and *shhh* bicyclists (not me, Guv) were making the most of the dry conditions. Much like the recently coppiced woodland heading out towards Grandma’s Bench, these tailed off come White House Beach.

What a beautiful day. What a bloody great big beautiful house that sits at the mouth of the Creek, splendid in isolation, apart from the spring succession of weekend away day explorers that rubber neck the rural retreat en route to Alresford.

The second leg snaked around to Thorrington Tidal Mill, the jewel in the North Essex crown of slightly shop soiled estuary landscapes - a little bit rough, a little bit unbearing, a little bit Brightlingsea but not quite. And then past All Saint’s Church and the host of golden daffodils, and then we buggered off back to Wivenhoe.

Only joking.

If walking from Wivenhoe Cross down to the Quay seems like two villages rolled into one (whaddya mean… oh, I see) then the approach for Brightlingsea could double up as an Olympic marathon route. We needed some refreshment; we needed to head sharpish into the Railway Tavern for two rounds of cider and black and a couple of chasers, just before afternoon chucking out time as well.

Chin chin.

A bit of a dazed and confused afternoon was then lost wandering the means streets of Brightlingsea. The lovely local Bobby asked us if we were OK; Easter holidaying families thought that the carnival had come to town.

Which in a way, it had.

Everyday is a birthday. Especially in Brightlingsea.

When’s the last bus home?