Is this undiscovered Essex enclave the most peaceful town in England?

Strolling along the waterfront in Burnham on Crouch, in the sleepy hinterland of rural Essex, I marvel at why I’ve never thought of coming here before. I’ve been all over the county – it’s one of my favourites – but until today this secluded corner had completely passed me by.

It seems I’m not the only one. Everyone I speak to here agrees that Burnham is a bit forgotten, and most of them seem keen to keep it that way. I don’t blame them. It’s a lovely little town, a cluster of historic houses on the River Crouch, and the bucolic countryside that surrounds it is a nirvana for hikers and birdwatchers. It’s a pretty, peaceful place with no spectacular must-see sights. It’s wonderfully understated. Tranquility is intrinsic to its appeal.

The main reason Burnham is so tranquil is because it’s tucked away on the Dengie Peninsula, surrounded on three sides by water – the River Crouch, the River Blackwater and the North Sea. Historically, this made it hard to get to – and even after the railway arrived in 1889, old traditions of self-sufficiency and solidarity endured. Relative isolation created a strong sense of community. Even today, everyone seems to know everyone here.

It used to be a hard life for most folk on this peninsula – farming or fishing – but now this undiscovered enclave is facing a different challenge. Various areas around Burnham are earmarked for development, and locals are uneasy. ‘Green Fields, not Urban Builds!’ read the roadside billboards. ‘Say No to More Houses.’ Is this unspoilt haven about to be buried beneath a sea of concrete? Are its best days over? Have I arrived too late?

Of course Britain needs more houses, and since Burnham is only an hour away from London, it’s inevitable that some of those houses will be built here. However it’d be a crying shame if it became just another dormitory town. It has a rich maritime history, and the surrounding saltmarsh is a precious refuge for rare wildlife. I reckon what it really needs to protect its heritage isn’t more Nimby activists, but more leisure visitors like you and me.

Sure, mass tourism can ruin a place, but specialist sightseers can create powerful incentives for preservation and conservation. Burnham’s high street is charming, but there are plenty of empty shopfronts. Its fields are crisscrossed with footpaths, but some of them are overgrown. Maybe what’s required to stem the remorseless encroachment of suburbia is a few more day-trippers and weekenders. I can’t think of a nicer place to spend a couple of days.

I start my visit in Burnham Museum, housed in a robust old boatshed on the quayside. From the outside it doesn’t look like much, but inside it’s a Tardis, full of ephemera and antiquities spanning several thousand years, everything from Neolithic pottery and Bronze Age axe heads to 20th-century bric-a-brac. Remarkably, it’s all run by a dedicated team of local volunteers.

The Romans came here to harvest salt from the saltmarshes, but the thing that put Burnham on the map in more recent times was oysters. A thriving fishing port evolved, and when that industry declined fishing made way for yachting. For a while Burnham was on a par with Cowes. It’s not quite as lively as it used to be, but sailing is still central to the life of the town. The Royal Corinthian Yacht Club is the main landmark, a splendid slab of Art Deco. There are still some boatyards around town.

I walk along the riverside to a modern marina full of yachts. Mark Philips, an affable chap who runs the Burnham Ferry, takes me across the river to Wallasea Island RSPB Reserve. The fare is a fiver each way. This fertile marshland has been farmed for centuries, but here the RSPB has now returned some of it to its natural state, attracting all sorts of wildlife – not only wading birds like avocets and redshanks, but rare butterflies and water voles.

Back in Burnham I refuel at the Jolly Fryer – voted the best chippy in Essex, a local institution for 100 years. I scoff cod and chips sitting on the seawall, looking across the river to Wallasea Island. There’s scarcely a soul in sight. It’s hard to believe that London is only an hour away.

As well as Wallasea, there are loads of super walks on the mainland. Feeling full of vim, I hike along the river to Althorne, a village five miles upstream. The footpath runs along the seawall, overlooking reedbeds, mudflats and the winding river beyond.

I’m having so much fun that when I reach Althorne, I decide to head on to North Fambridge, another five miles away. Both villages have stations, both on the same line as Burnham, so depending on how fit you feel, you can catch a train back to Burnham (or towards London) from either stop.

The path to Althorne is well-trodden, but beyond it becomes more overgrown. A forbidding sign says ‘Danger! Beware Adders. Keep to Footpath.’ Yet this part of the path is only a faint outline. I shuffle on through the long grass, feeling rather nervous. I spot a little egret in the shallows. I sit on a bench dedicated to a man called Tony Abbott. ‘Watch the tide ebb and flow, then the birds come and go,’ reads the brass plaque on the bench.

I spend the night at the Oyster Smack Inn, an unpretentious gastropub back in Burnham. I’m ready for bed, but the restaurant is full of people and the grub looks too good to miss. I’m not disappointed: half a dozen local oysters and a wing of local skate, washed down with a refreshing pint of Maldon Gold, brewed in Essex.

Next morning, I head inland, to visit a few local vineyards. With its warm, dry weather, the Crouch Valley has the biggest concentration of vineyards in the UK. Two of them, Clayhill and Crouch Ridge, are walking distance from Burnham. From the chic new café at the former, there are fantastic views across gentle hills and lush floodplain. You could be in the South of France.

I stop for lunch at Crouch Ridge: a scrumptious cold platter of meats and cheeses, accompanied by a glass of crisp white. Ross and Samantha Lonergan are fifth generation farmers, but they’ve only been growing wine here for ten years. You’d never know it. It feels as if these vineyards have always been here, an intrinsic part of the landscape. You can stay here too, in one of their smart converted farm buildings.

I head back to Burnham station, but I’m in no hurry to go home. I check my phone. About a mile up the road is Mangapps Railway Museum. It’d be a shame to miss it, so I walk along the main road, then down a country lane, and onto a private road that ends in a rough gravel path. I end up in a farmyard. Has Google Maps sent me to the wrong address?

Finally, I see a little sign with a picture of a steam train. I’m in the right place, but I don’t have high hopes: maybe a couple of rusty old engines in a field? I couldn’t be more wrong. Retired farmers John and June Jolly have assembled an enormous collection, including a dozen locomotives, countless carriages and all sorts of curios: old railway signs, old railway posters, a signal box… they’ve even built a mile of track outside.

It’s one of the most remarkable museums I’ve ever visited, and John and June seem so happy and contented – at peace with the world and their place within it. I realise that no-one I’ve met here these last few days has seemed at all grumpy. As I retrace my steps to the station for my train back to London, I wonder what it’d be like to live here. Maybe I could afford one of those new houses? On second thoughts, better just settle for another lazy weekend away.

Essentials

For more information about Burnham on Crouch and the Dengie Peninsula, see visitessex.com. For details of train travel around the Dengie Peninsula and beyond, see greateranglia.co.uk

What is your favourite place in Essex? Have you visited Burnham on Crouch? Please let us know in the comments below

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