Absolutely fabuloso day in IP5 as the troops gather in that car park closest to the bike sheds. Kev's in the back, Andy's at the wheel and I'm riding shotgun as the trio con brio set sail seawards. Lo, here's the 'Stowe and we go down Ferry Road to gawp at the Big Houses with their bonzer view. Struth. Putt-putting past the golf club, it's a left to the old Ferry Cafe and newboy Winkles but a right for us into IP11. All that coastal cloud means that Cliff Road is in the shadows.

Felixstowe factoid: that designer (octagonal?) house by The Pines was once a swinging restaurant. Heck, if his memory can be trusted, it even survived playing host to young Kev's 18th birthday celebrations. Opposite that now private residence can be found a nifty lay-by, dead convenient for The Dip. High time to hit the hut with their painted promise of:

Latte, Cappuccino, Panini, Sandwiches, Dairy Ice Cream, Homemade Cakes, All Things Beachy

Unlike whence we came, Old Felix is windblown and chilly, so that'll be hot paninis all round, please. As helpful as he can be, the nice one-man-band bossman can't offer us any indoor seating, obvs, but the wooden chairs to the side are miraculously out of the breeze. Handy hedge, that. Good selection of soft drinks to be had: for the benefit of our health, we're all on the Purdey's grape and apple elixir. There's the odd patch of Dutchman's trousers overhead as the fella limbos under the side door with our freshly made ham 'n' cheese 'n' pickle combos on jolly plastic plates. This, as my FiL would say, beats working.

Cue the opening track on side two of Abbey Road as Andy makes the short walk back to the Tardis, returning with lemon drizzle, apple cake and a brownie to share on our tiny fold-up tables. Not half bad latte, too, as more walkers stop for a snack. Our tip for The Dip sprung from our trip to the Walton Coffee House. Same folks in charge and serving up good grub at both establishments. This one has the better aspect, unquestionably. Sadly, we must be off. With nobody around for a couple of minutes, I catch a glimpse of the chap taking a seat with his ukulele. All together now: with my little stick of Felixstowe rock.

If it was a car -- Bond Bug.
If they were passing by -- Holly Bradshaw.