Perfect weekends are something to think about. Before, during and after, they are respite: proof that, every now and again, things can be just so, the cards can fall into place. I’ve been thinking about perfect weekends a bit lately, as most of mine for the past year have involved cutting tiles, sawing wood, and slicing bootlaces of skin from my fingers, all in the pursuit of a renovated flat. Having to navigate a stray fridge to get into bed isn’t as relaxing as it sounds. It turns out my place is the stubborn sort, resistant to change; I win only by getting nasty with the power tools. There is a gangster movie in this somewhere.
Time to get away. And so to Aldeburgh in Suffolk, which soothed — albeit it not immediately (what is it about rail replacement services that makes one lust for the swift mercy of death?) But under usual circs, the trip would take a little over two hours, done smartly; via Ipswich is the way. When you get there, Aldeburgh is an old Tudor seaside village, which sounds a little dry until you realise it’s full of old spies.
