The Road to Walton-on-the-Naze
An ancient Anglo-Saxon town,
At the quay our tour comes to a halt
Thames barges, quaint rigging, sails brown
Yes, Maldon’s a place worth its salt
At Tiptree, I’m thinking of toast
With marmalade layered up thick
It seems like we’re miles from the coast
Just the estuary playing a trick
Fields of rape bright and pungent
We’re loving the calm sunny lanes
The song of the merle is effulgent
Till I remember, Trump’s at the reins
Britain’s oldest town, so it says by the street
And Colchester looks in great health
The poor quarters are tidy and neat
Elsewhere there are signs of great wealth
At Costa the first glitch of the day
A skelf in Den’s leg, quite deep
The first-aider gets it out OK
But the paperwork nearly makes us weep
Through Clacton and Frinton we pootle
These places do hardly amaze
By the shoreline we merrily tootle
At last we hit Walton-on-the-Naze
Our route takes us out to the headland
At first I don’t understand why
But the Naze is really quite special
Though hardly a feast on the eye
We’re staying the night in a ‘van
And hope it’s all right in this heat
The landlord’s a rather strange man
He wants 20 quid extra for sheets.