To the south of the harbour, and through Kirtley, is the village of Pakefield, which may be approached either by the sea-side, or by the turnpike road. The church has a double nave and is neat and carefully preserved. The font and several brasses deserve attention. Beyond Pakefield is Kessingland, and between the two villages, on the beach, is a neat and new Light-house: the walk along the cliff here is very pleasant; several coins and other curiosities have been found at different times, specimens of which may be obtained of an old man who lives close by.
Through Kessingland lies Covehithe; the ruins of its church covered with ivy, and venerable in its decay, are thus described by Davy in his architectural antiquities. “These splendid ruins attest the former wealth and populousness of a place, which now ranks among the poorest and meanest parishes in the county. All the ancient part of this once stately pile is now in complete decay; but divine service is performed in a small edifice erected within the nave of the old one, though it does not occupy one half of it. This, as appears from an inscription on a stone in the north wall, was completed in the year 1672. The three grand arches at the east, still retain their position, though much mutilated, and, for magnitude and form, may vie with the noblest specimens of the kind in the county. The tower, which appears of a more ancient date than the rest of the ruined fabric, still remains as a landmark for travellers.”
Miss Agnes Strickland, who resides at Reydon hall, not many miles distant, has thus sung the melancholy fate of Covehithe:—
“On gray Covehithe mild eve has cast
A soft and mellow ray;
But o’er its glories time has pass’d
With dark destroying sway.“All roofless now, the stately pile,
And rent, the arches tall,
Through which, with bright departing smile,
The western sunbeams fall.“The ivy wreaths unheeded twine
In wild profusion there,
And oft with summer flowers combine
To crown the oriel fair.“The choir is hush’d, and silent now
The organ’s thrilling sigh;
Yet swells at eve, from many a bough,
The linnet’s lullaby.“The grass-grown aisle all green and lone,
No musing footsteps tread;
And even o’er the altar stone
The mantling brambles spread.“Tradition’s voice forgets to tell
Whose ashes sleep below,
And fancy here unchecked may swell
And bid the story flow.”
But we are trenching now upon the proper domain of Southwold, which is a pleasant watering place beyond Covehithe, to which, if the visiter should wish to rove, we advise that, on his return, he should take the road to Wrentham, thence proceed along the turnpike road past Benacre Hall, the seat of Sir T. S. Gooch, and so through Kessingland to Lowestoft again.
We have now performed our task, and heartily wish our readers health and happiness through the season, in the enjoyment of which they cannot fail to appreciate the pleasures afforded by the works of Him whose is the sea, for he made it; whose hand also fashioned the dry land.
THE END.
Lowestoft:
Printed by T. Crowe, High-street.