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We debate long whether we should do this and row up to Mistley in the dinghy, but finally decide we will go on as the wind is fair, and we can see our way quite plainly. Thoughts of the morrow are disregarded; after all, the wind would most likely remain where it is, and that would be rather better for getting out again. So we glide up the ditch, for it really is nothing more, which leads through the wide mud flats of Jacques Bay and Seafield Bay, the former on the Essex shore, the latter on the Suffolk side. Almost three-quarters of a mile from Mistley the creek takes a turn south-west, and we have to beat up this as best we can. However, the flood carries us along, and we manage to avoid getting ashore somehow, and in another half-hour are anchored off Mistley Quay.

When we are comfortably stowed it gradually dawns upon us that we have sailed into a singularly pretty place. The village is built on the side of the water, which here sweeps round in a semi-circle, and the deepest water is close up to the village. A sharp point juts out on the west side, shutting out Manningtree, and forming a pretty wooded shelter from the west winds.

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Behind the quay is the park of Mistley Hall, beautifully situated on sloping and undulating ground. Of this place, Horace Walpole gave it as his opinion that it was charmingest place by nature and the most trumpery by art," that he had ever seen.

The property came to the Rivers family from the Rigbys. One of the Lords Rivers oddly enough was drowned in the Serpentine, of all places in the world, early in this century.

The country round Mistley is full of beauty, and one is constantly reminded of Constable's pictures. There is that brilliancy of cloud, of silvery light, of wealth of verdure, with gleaming water, and simple country life, which the great painter loved to put on canvas.

Constable was born at East Bergholt, a village across the water, where the church bells are hung, as at Wrabness, in a wooden cage in the churchyard. The legend says this was

done because the evil one had an especial objection to East Bergholt Church, and would never allow the belfry to be finished.

This country was much given to witchcraft, if we may believe a former native of Manningtree, who obtained rather a peculiar notoriety for his zeal in finding out these objectionable practices. Matthew Hopkins, appointed “Witch-finder General" to the Commonwealth, was born at Manningtree, and many a poor old beldame was he the death of by reason of his cruel tests. It is some comfort to know that Master Hopkins was at last, if not exactly hoist with his own petard, soused in the ducking-pond after his own orthodox style. He also was thrown in to see if he would drown or swim, and as he chose the latter course he was promptly served as he had served others far more innocent than himself.

It is early in the evening yet. We go ashore and stroll along the road towards Manningtree, and then turn up a lane to the left, which brings us to a hill where we have a beautiful view over the Stour and the Suffolk hills opposite. So lovely is the scene, with the broad estuary spreading to its full extent on each side, to the cliffs and woods which fringe its shores, that one feels inclined to echo Lord Orford's remark that it is the "charmingest place by nature."

There is no disputing that these two rivers, the Stour and the Orwell, offer the prettiest scenery we have yet come

across.

But mindful of the cynical saying, "call no man happy until he is dead," we look at the wide-stretching, land-locked water, where there is no suggestion of the shallows beneath, and ponder pensively; the thought comes, how shall we get out again? But sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. Let us enjoy the loveliness of the scene while we are possessed of it. If the beauty is there all smiling before us and sweetly offering us its fragrant charms, did we not come in search of it? So in the spirit of true rovers of the sea we take the good things Fortune sends us, and sit on the grassy bank and revel in the fair scene before us, reckless of the fact that we well know their lies an

embrace, all too importunately clinging, below the placid loveliness.

We turn in contentedly, soothed by the sweet sounds of the burbling tide as it gurgles past our stem, and the occasional pipe of a curlew as it calls over Seafield Bay.

CHAPTER XV.

THE WOODBRIDGE RIVER.

NEXT morning we are up early. The breeze is just where it was the night before, that is, fair for sailing out, but a head wind for getting in to Hanford Water. There seems a fate against our exploring this creek. Never mind, we are not out of the Stour yet.

As the wind is a leading one we think it better to let the tide fall before starting, for we can then see the mud flats, and if we should have the misfortune to stick, shall not have to wait so long and anxiously as would be the case if the tide were at its highest.

Accordingly about half ebb we get up the anchor, and are soon slipping down before the breeze to Wrabness. Warily we steer, and are once or twice a little dubious of getting out, by reason of the narrowness and shallow water of the channel across Jacques Bay. But by the exercise of great caution we reach Wrabness. Here we are in deeper water, and can enjoy the scenery again. We notice as we pass Erwarton Point that there is a landing-place there, and the path goes up over the hill to the old church and hall beyond. We strongly recommend this walk. It is very pretty, and in fine weather Erwarton is quite safe to lie off. With a freshening breeze and falling tide we are not long in getting back to Harwich, and are soon spinning out to the North Sea.

As we stand out, close hauled, on the starboard tack, just going to windward of the Beach End Bell Buoy, we look down wistfully towards the vacant space between the Naze on the one side, looking like an island, and the long low shore of Dovercourt and Ramsey on the other; while beyond and between the Naze and Dovercourt loom the uplands of the Sokens.

We see a yawl, evidently a yacht, lying at anchor in what we know is the fairway up to the mazy creeks behind Waltonle-Soken, but the wind is right out, and the tide too; it would be a useless waste of time trying to get there.

True to our rule of never going against wind and tide, but always accepting the direction nature chooses for us, we put up the helm, ease off the sheets, and are soon rippling down between the Landguard Breakwater and the Andrews Buoy. There is 6ft. of water here at just half-way between the two, and if we keep at this distance off the Felixstowe shore we shall go inside the Platters shoal. There is only 3ft. of water on the Platters at dead low water spring tides, so we must be careful. However, by keeping our ship's head, after passing Landguard Point, on the third tower, standing on Felixstowe Point a little beyond Bull Cliff, we shall pass through in 9ft. of water. When abreast of the first tower from Landguard Point steer for a point about half a mile off the buoys on Felixstowe Point.

Perhaps the best way is to go outside the Andrews and Platters Buoys if the tide is ebbing strong, and then steer northeast for the buoy lying off the Woodbridge River. We carry the tide with us then, and have nothing to do but keep a straight

course.

However, we choose the more intricate channel because we like to feel our way, and also because we want to see more of Felixstowe. It is a pretty little place, and a delightful spot for yachting men, as they can keep their vessels off the shore if it is quiet, and run for shelter to Harwich if it looks anyway dirty. It is only two miles back to the Andrews Buoy, so that one is in safety before the wind has had time to draw in its cheeks preparatory to a blow.

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