8th August 2014

The sky might be holding off on the rain for now, but the crackle in the Test Match Special commentary is doing its best impression of distant thunder. Clearly, the forecasted storms are limbering up. It’s a Friday afternoon, and I’ve returned from the allotments with beetroot, carrots, fennel, and beans, a veritable haul worthy of a proud Instagram post, if only I could work out how to use it.

Meanwhile, tonight’s curries, a fiery Madras and a gentler Korma, are already marinating away in the kitchen, awaiting the family like troops ready for battle. So, with all pressing duties ticked off, I find myself on the patio, half-listening to the cricket, half-waiting for the heavens to open, and wholly guilty about sipping a cold beer. I like to think of it as “hydration with purpose.” Still, I’ve decided to be virtuous and write this blog instead. After all, a beer left to mature in the bottle is rather like England’s middle order: the longer you wait, the more unpredictable the result.

About a month ago, we booked a couple of nights in Clacton-on-Sea using a GoGroopie voucher, because who doesn’t love a bargain “romantic getaway”? On Sunday night, I rang the Laxfield Hotel to confirm our parking reservation, only to be told they had no record of our booking. It transpired that the previous managers (from Eastern Europe, apparently) had “done a runner” with both cash and equipment, leaving the owner in the lurch. She discovered this when the keys were shoved unceremoniously through her letterbox in Harrow.

She did kindly offer us a stay, on the condition that we paid again for B&B. I told her I’d call back, which is polite code for “I’ll consult the internet before handing over any more money.” After checking the GoGroopie website and firing off an email to Customer Services, and finding it true, we decided to carry on with the trip. I rang back, confirmed our stay, and prepared to embrace Clacton, dodgy bookings, missing managers and all.

The next morning, we set off for Flatford Mill. I’ve been a few times before and suspected Sue would relish a wander through ‘Constable Country’, with the added thrill of standing precisely where The Hay Wain was painted. I wasn’t wrong. The sun was out, the river sparkled, and the whole place was pleasantly overrun with fellow “more seasoned” sightseers, most of whom were engaged in the universal pastime of peering earnestly at information boards.

True to form, we read every plaque, took far too many photos of scenery that Constable had already done a better job of capturing, and meandered along the paths like dutiful tourists. We then settled down for a picnic in the RSPB’s charming nature garden beside Bridge Cottage, where the sandwiches seemed to attract more attention from the local birdlife than from us, before ambling back to the car and resuming our coastal adventure.

After a spirited game of “hunt the parking space” in the streets near the hotel, we finally hauled our bags into reception. There we found an elderly couple, flanked by two grandchildren, locked in earnest discussion with the owner. It turned out they, too, had arrived brandishing a GoGroopie voucher with an air of bewilderment.

As we loitered politely, it became clear just how spectacularly the previous managers had scarpered: not only with £3,500 in GoGroopie vouchers but also £42,000 in Wowcher vouchers, plus all the documentation and the bookings register for good measure. The owner had been left completely in the dark about who was due to turn up and when. For this poor couple, no room was immediately available, though, by a stroke of luck, a last-minute cancellation call came through, freeing up a room just in time. We soon struck up a conversation with them and, in true British fashion, discovered they hailed from Lutterworth. Small world indeed, though, as Sue pointed out, it’s never Market Harborough, is it?

Once it was our turn to check in, Sue conducted a thorough room inspection and chose the one with curtains (the alternative being a larger room without, which rather lacked the promise of a good night’s sleep). Bags deposited and coffee brewed, we set off to explore Clacton.

First stop: the Pier, followed by a leisurely promenade stroll, where we dutifully paused for fish and chips at a spot that looked promising and smelled even better. Afterwards, we drifted through the town centre, checked the film times at the cinema, and, with an hour or two to spare, ducked into a nearby pub. Come showtime, we found ourselves in a surprisingly full auditorium for a Monday night. Dawn of the Planet of the Apes did not disappoint: entertaining, thoughtful, and far more sophisticated than the title might suggest. Well worth the price of admission, even without a voucher.

The following morning began with a respectable cooked breakfast, nothing Michelin-starred, but hearty enough to fuel a decent walk. Over toast and tea, we caught up briefly with the couple from Lutterworth, who reported triumphantly, as I had already confirmed that GoGroopie had promised them a refund. Proof, if ever it were needed, that miracles do still happen.

Our plan was a seven-mile coastal trek to Walton-on-the-Naze. The sun beamed obligingly, while a brisk sea breeze kept things fresh, ideal walking weather, provided one’s hat wasn’t of the flying variety. Curiously, we saw hardly another soul along the way, which suggested that Clacton caters mostly for Londoners of a more sedentary persuasion, content to let others do the walking while they hold the fort at the deckchairs.

We paused in Holland-on-the-Sea to admire the offshore wind turbines, vast, elegant contraptions that looked like they’d been borrowed from a futuristic film set, before pressing on to Walton. There, we celebrated our arrival with a well-earned pint at a seafront pub, followed by a stroll along the pier to inspect the lifeboat moored at the far end. A fitting reminder that, while the sea may look picturesque, it still has a habit of misbehaving.

From the pier we drifted into the picturesque town centre, where we found a cosy café for lunch. Suitably fortified, we carried on exploring, only to circle back to the pub for a second round, proof, if needed, that sightseeing is thirsty work. Eventually, with Walton thoroughly inspected, we settled on a bench by the bus stop, ice creams in hand, waiting for our bus ride back to Clacton. Neither Sue nor I had set foot on a local bus in years, so the revelation that a single fare now costs £7 came as something of a jaw-dropper. At that rate, we half-expected to be chauffeured back in a Bentley.

Back at the hotel, we revived ourselves with a coffee before heading out once more, this time for a gentle promenade stroll to the Martello Tower at the town’s edge. Later, after working up a respectable appetite, we returned to the centre for an excellent Nepalese dinner, spices, warmth, and hospitality all spot on.

The next morning, as before, we were dragged from slumber by the ungodly racket of squabbling seagulls. For a while, we just watched through the window, amused as they strutted about the traffic-free street below. It was less dawn chorus, more Birdy High Noon, with feathers fluffed, beaks brandished, and the occasional screech that wouldn’t have been out of place in Gunfight at the OK Corral.

After breakfast, we handed in our keys and, naturally, the heavens opened. In driving rain, we made our way to The Naze, arriving just before 10 am and parked outside the Tower. With what can only be described as grim determination, we wriggled into our waterproofs and braved the elements to the entrance. Inside, we paid our dues and began the climb up the tightly coiled iron staircase, pausing at each floor to admire the artwork and historical displays (and to catch our breath). By the time we emerged at the top, the rain had mercifully ceased, though the gale-force winds and heavy cloud made for an experience more bracing than panoramic.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Back on terra firma, we set off on a four-mile circuit around the Naze. Happily, the weather improved with every step. We stopped here and there to pocket a few fossils and hunt down three geocaches I’d stored on my GPS, though to the casual onlooker, we probably looked like eccentric ramblers arguing with a small electronic brick. By the time we were nearing the end, the sun was blazing, the wind had calmed, and we happened upon a fish and chip shop. Admittedly, it wasn’t the finest we’ve ever tasted, more “serviceable sustenance” than “culinary triumph”, but after a long walk, it hit the spot.

Back at the car, we decided to tackle the Tower once more, this time rewarded with sweeping panoramic views beneath a flawless blue sky. Then it was time to point the car towards Harborough. Midway home, David rang. He was in Harborough and needed Nan’s address; by the time we arrived home, he was already heading north towards Yorkshire.

For a short break, it was a very different sort of trip from our usual ventures, but we ticked off everything we’d planned, and, mercifully, GoGroopie refunded our ill-fated voucher. It’s a shame that scams like this are becoming more common; vigilance, it seems, is the new currency of travel. Amusingly (if one can call it that), one of the elusive “runners” actually announced on Facebook, under one of their three aliases, that they were “off to Spain!” just before posting the keys through the owner’s letterbox. The owner suspects that it was a decoy, and that they’ve simply resurfaced somewhere else in the UK to rinse and repeat. As if that weren’t enough, the hotel’s brand-new top-of-the-line commercial coffee machine, complete with a year’s supply of beans, also vanished with them. A pity, really, our breakfasts could have been outstanding.