Andrew Millham takes us on a walk along the River Crouch in the quaint village of Hullbridge – awash with swans, seagulls and autumn sun
Distance: Two-mile round trip
Time: Two hours, including time to stop, snack and stare
Hullbridge: the quintessential riverside community. I embarked upon this walk later than intended when the sun was already low in the sky. Turning left at the ‘Beware – River Ahead’ sign, I parked in the free-to-use Pooles Lane Car Park (ashes.defenders.elevated) and walked down Ferry Road. There was a ferry service crossing the Crouch at Hullbridge for at least 900 years until the mid-20th century. I walked past the pink plastered Shell Cottage, purportedly built in 1738, and past the Fisherman’s cottages until finally reaching the slipway – slick with green algae.
Crossing the River Crouch was an essential part of a pilgrimage route to Canterbury in the medieval period, and as well as the causeway, both Hullbridge and Fambridge may once have had bridges of some kind, which are remembered in their names. On this day, there was a woman on the other side of the river feeding bread to tens of hungry swans, which bit at each other’s tailfeathers in angst. A single black swan, well-loved by locals, was in the mix, and swarming seagulls squawked impolitely.
The tide was partially out meaning that only boats in the centre of the river were afloat, whilst others sat lopsided on the mud. The few swans that had stayed this side of the river expectantly followed me alongside The Anchor pub (basically.filer.thighs). Realising that I had no bread to offer, one of the swans jumped off of the 12-foot-high quay and, flapping its wings to minimise the blow, belly flopped onto the mud before motoring across the water, pointing upriver at a diagonal to account for the current.
Brackish air filled my lungs as I entered a winding puddled track (cosmetic.jolt.onions), lined on both sides with tall hedgerows. My ears were ringing with the clanging of halyards from the sailing club. Gaps in the hedges to my left revealed snapshots of the river, with autumn colours matched by the silt, which had developed a rusty, golden-brown lustre in the apricot sunlight. Here, seagulls were more subdued and quietly picked around like mudlarks. So far, I hadn’t met a soul, but I did notice an intriguing set of footsteps in the mud stretching down to the water’s edge – I never discovered to whom they belonged.
House sparrows darted to and fro in the brambles, their rapid-fire wing-flapping sounding like someone flicking through a deck of cards. An old lady walking in the opposite direction appeared. She was using two sticks to balance herself as she skirted around muddy puddles using the very edge of the narrow path. I stepped to one side to let her pass, and we laughed together. ‘Talk about manoeuvring,’ she said with a smile.
A large field soon opened up before me, lined with silver birch, the bark of which shone like mirrors as the sun reappeared from behind a cloud. Walking straight across the field, I found myself at Riverview Café (unwind.automate.wiser) – one of my favourite peaceful places for a cheeky breakfast.
After the café, as the river grows increasingly wide, the walk takes on a new intrigue. On the right are the impressive houses and gardens of Pooles Lane. There are some beautiful properties that continue all the way to Brandy Hole Yacht Club where a man was tinkering with his boat. By now the landscape feels remote, and distant dog walkers on the opposite bank look like ants.
From here you can pick up the road and walk back down Pooles Lane [slant.bluffing.limped], but I decided to return the way I had come. My long shadow was cast seaward with the ebbing tide and the views were no less spectacular. I ended the walk with a drink at The Anchor as a heavy blanket of cloud rolled in, dimming the sun and gently folding day into night.
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