I’ve always had a lot of time for Essex. It’s not all Humvees and spraytans the colour of Cheesy Wotsits, as a trip to Maldon proves. It’s a sort of Aldeburgh lite – without those braying men in pink cords and their Boden-ed families. Weatherboarded shacks a-plenty, barges with sails the colour of a hankie that’s just stemmed a nosebleed. Ice cream. Whimbrels whistling somewhere over there. Oh, and the best fish and chips I’ve eaten outside of Yorkshire.
Ten-Inch Wheels 