76
ESCAPE (^) | EXPLORING
SUNNY DAY ON
THE SHORELINE
ILLUSTRATOR ALICE STEVENSON DISCOVERS CURIOUS
PLACES AND SURPRISING PERSPECTIVES ON HER TRAVELS,
EXPLORING WONDERLANDS WITH AN ARTIST’S EYE
rivulets in the mud widen into streams that branch off
at angles, meeting each other and forming little islands;
an intricate mud archipelago spreading across the f lats.
Above the bank opposite, a blackthorn tree sways
gently, heavy with blossom, its delicate white breaking
up the deep green of the woodland behind it.
I come across a wrecked boat, lying on its side. The
planks on its hull are buckled and warped, some strips
are protruding at angles. The wood graduates from
rusty red to blackened charcoal towards its bow.
Walking on, I look back to admire its deck, which is now
a sun-bleached patchwork of boards, coming away from
each other like old roof tiles. The sun shines directly
onto it and the way the boat is angled brings to mind a
large, ancient creature basking in the spring sunlight.
Further, beyond Melton, the tide is higher and the
banks are narrower. On each side of the water an
abundance of golden reeds grows. From a distance,
their concentration gives them the illusion of solid land
mass that has been pulled apart to make room for the
narrow waterway that runs between them. The river
widens again, revealing the dark mudbanks where
reeds sprout and this muddy layer winds off into the
distance like a black ribbon. I look back at the elegant
curve of the river, its surface as shiny as a polished
mirror contrasting with the fuzzy yellow of the reeds,
the tops of which have now caught the sunlight and
f lutter in the breeze like white feathers. Large teasels
emerge from the edge of the river path, a graphic ink
line over the delicate textures behind it. The river and
its banks become narrower again and, beyond the river,
bulbous bushes of blossom spill over from behind long
grass. Directly above them, cumulus clouds mimic this
white foliage’s rounded shape and the world feels more
welcoming than it has done in many months.
A
s I look out over the Suffolk creek I see
the rich pattern of its bed, revealed by
low tide. It shimmers white gold in the
April sunlight and a darker mud
emerges from it like swirls of
chocolate sauce in vanilla ice-cream.
Bright green algae and spiky sea grass interrupt the
monochrome pattern of the f lats as, marble-like, it
spreads out across the creek merging into a darker,
metallic grey in the distance. Close up, this formation
loses its definition and becomes a soggy mess of damp
sticks and churned mud beneath the raised footpath I
am standing on. But it is a proper spring weekend after
a dreary winter and nothing can dampen the experience
of admiring this view with the sun on my face and arms.
At the harbour in Woodbridge, the sharp point of
t he Tide Mill’s roof looks a s if it m ight punct ure t he
cloudless blue sky. The large building’s simple
whitewashed, timber walls, are fresh and clean in the
morning light. Its impressive size gives it a sense of
ruling benignly over the glittering mudf lats below and
the maze of narrow streets behind it. On the surface of
the f lats, a network of wiggly, silver rivulets echoes the
wavy pattern of pargeting that I was admiring earlier
that morning on Georgian cottages in the town. Across
the river, beyond the Tide Mill, tiny, toy-sized boats
lean to one side, their keels sunk into the mud. The
intensity of the light makes the trees behind the shore
blur into rounded black clumps.
As I walk along the river path, northwards, I peer
through the gaps between house boats, and the surface
estuary bed has changed to a more dappled formation
similar to the soft cirrus clouds that had watched
over the cottage rooftops in Woodbridge earlier that
morning. As I continue, the tide begins to come in, and