A last-minute weekend in Aldeburgh meant a quick gathering of the books I've been saving to read there and a hastily packed bag (I love going to places where the only dress code is what feels comfortable: so easy to pack and no ironing required).
A detour on the way there to see a fine bread cupboard in Woodbridge,
then a lovely time seeing huge angels in a roof, a remote thatched church, stained glass people burning in what looks like a wood-fired oven in a Piper/Reyntiens window, Hepworth and Moore sculptures overlooking marshes, a lovely little exhibition of lettering,
and, coincidentally, a fine example of Lombardic script in flint and stone.
We listened to music at a bandstand on the beach, had fish and chips, tea and scones in a pretty tea room and coffee and buns in a bustling bakery, wandered round allotments, admired Maggi Hambling's 'Scallop', caught the last weekend of the John Craske exhibition (more on this another time), and found it difficult to choose which plants to bring home from Woottens of Wenhaston.
Aldeburgh showed once again that it is a rose and rosé place. This weekend the roses were in full bloom all over the town - pink, white, peach - and they made me notice just how many other flowers creep and tumble and wind their way up walls, over walls and round doorways. And, for some reason, we always associate Aldeburgh with chilled pink wine, not something we often drink. But who are we to argue with our own history; we just go and buy a bottle and enjoy the sense of continuity.
This is what I took:
This is what I bought:
This is what I always have with me:
OS map (because I do not trust satnav)
England's Thousand Best Churches (because quite a few are in Suffolk)
And I didn't even need to take a corkscrew. These days, decent rosé comes in screwcap bottles which is always a good thing when you are drinking it on the beach.