When it comes to rivers, there are two types of people,’ says Ipswich local Gary Richens.
‘Those who like them thriving and useful and those who like them empty. I like mine thriving.’
As we stand on the marshy banks of a peninsula just south of Ipswich, where two rivers, the Orwell and Stour, meet before they make for the North Sea, I realise that I agree with Gary.
Ahoy there! Suffolk’s idyllic coast, where James took his family for some boating fun
This area is packed with white-hulled sailing boats silently shooting past. They’re dwarfed by 100ft-high container ships being loaded up by even taller cranes in the Port of Felixstowe on the opposite bank.
This enthralling international trade is the heartbeat of Britain. Yet it goes on without a sound.
We barely notice an hour passing as we breathe it in, fascinated by sailors negotiating a lock, while our two boys — aged seven and four — paddle on the shore and throw stones in the water.
When you’re seven years old, life is not complete unless you’re holding a stick or throwing stones.
Everyone in this part of Suffolk lives, plays and works on the river. It’s depicted in one of Arthur Ransome’s later Swallows And Amazons books — and this year is the 50th anniversary of the writer’s death.
We meet Gary, a retired engineer, at Shotley Pier, which is rotting slowly into the river. Ambitious locals want to raise £300,000 to transform it to its former Victorian glory.
Crowd-pleaser: James’ son Will, seven, was thrilled to discover the nautical life
Gary spends his days on this type of community campaign, and is part of a band of volunteers who have lovingly plotted a six-mile trek along muddy inlets and nesting marshland. It is the course Ransome’s heroes took in his book We Didn’t Mean To Go To Sea — which is 80 this year.
We complete a fraction, skirting around the marina and the coast road from the village.
Ransome’s book describes a naval school based on HMS Ganges. The ship was decommissioned in 1976 — but there’s a museum in the marina manned by some of the men who trained onboard. The ship’s bell hangs at the entrance and our eldest, Will, can’t resist gently donging it.
Everyone in this part of Suffolk lives, plays and works on the river
‘No touching,’ I hiss.
An old sea dog struts over: ‘Come on, young man,’ he says. ‘If you’re going to ring it, ring it properly.’
He clangs the bell as if he’s spotted an enemy sub.
Will beams and is whisked away to learn all about firing rifles, sleeping in hammocks and how to become a button boy who climbs to the top of the ship’s rigging — just as John Noakes did on Ganges for Blue Peter in 1967.
Next, we catch a foot-ferry for the ten-minute trip to Harwich.
After wandering round its cobbled streets, we gobble down a pint of prawns at the pier cafe and join other families trying to catch crabs on the jetty.
The region is depicted in Arthur Ransome’s Swallows And Amazons novel
We’re staying at Lodge Farm, in the village of Freston. Thoughtfully done up, this collection of farm houses sits on the crest of a series of hills. On our first day we go on a heifer hunt to find six cows in a remote field below. The next, we stop to watch horses being reshoed.
The estate is owned by Oliver Paul and his family, who inherited several dilapidated plots of land. They’ve turned it in to a thriving business, including their magnificent Suffolk Food Hall a mile down the road. Built from an old cattle shed, it’s now a garden centre, food shop and restaurant.
We decide to visit Woolverstone Marina on the River Orwell and go out on the water with Mark Lewis, who runs the Shearwater Sailing School.
It’s the annual Parade of Sail regatta, which sees hundreds of yachts follow Ransome’s old red-sailed boat, the Nancy Blackett, as it departs for Holland, copying the route from We Didn’t Mean To Go To Sea.
A gentle breeze pulls us along and we pick out the admiralty houses on the shore, which poke above the tree-tops and are interspersed between farmers’ fields on either bank.
This lifestyle is addictive.
‘Reel in the mizzenmast, strap down the boom,’ I holler. I’ve not quite got the lingo, but Will has found his sea legs and is at the helm concentrating intently.
And so we bob along, soaking up the greenery, eating a lunch bought at the farm shop. Then my wife makes a confession.
‘Now we’re here, I do find Ransome’s books strange,’ she says. ‘Why would anyone want to set sail for another country if they lived here?’
As with most things, she’s absolutely right.