Tini was down for a few days, so yesterday we once again jumped into the car and drove the 90 miles or so to the Suffolk coast. She hadn’t been to Benacre and its estate before, and I hadn’t seen her for almost five years (she hadn’t even met Nik), so although a long day was ahead, it didn’t matter, and in any case, it would get us away from the computers. Leaving before breakfast, we made good time and arrived in time for late – but not too late – eggs and muffins, washed down with coffee and tea. Strangely, poached eggs were a new thing for Tini, but I’d have thought that at some time in her 80+ years she would have come across them. Maybe they’re just not that common in the Netherlands.

The day had dawned bright, but we weren’t quite prepared for what that brightness would become. A day of full-on heat and sunshine, we ventured out to explore the walled gardens. Tended and nurtured carefully, numerous small patches of land back onto each other, and are separated by old brick walls, reminding me of more formal gardens at a country house, something which Benacre Hall must have had at some point in its rich and varied past. Sitting in the shade of a tree on a bench chatting to mum and Bart was more of a social time than we thought; it was soon time for lunch, and once Tini had strode across the grass to join us, an impromptu picnic beckoned.

A veritable feast was laid out before us, and while two of us sat on the white sheet that masqueraded as a rug, three of the party sat on the bench, talking about history, culture and how really beautiful the day had turned out to be. Post-lunch, mum, Nik and I headed to Southwold and the brewery shop where we ooh-ed and aah-ed at all manner of expensive kitchen gadgets on display, before taking coffee in the newly-built coffee shop. A quick around the town followed, before we jumped back in the car and weaved our way up the long Bencare Estate drive, narrowly missing the sheep and their just-born lambs. Being a meat eater – but increasingly less often – the cute lambs are enough to put you off, all large ears and gangly thin legs, with the odd tiny black face making an appearance.

More tea was made and preparations for dinner were started. The pair of us ventured out for a walk around the grounds of the estate, and as the evening sun descended through the trees, we took pictures of the countryside scenes and the fog and sheep-filled fields, before going indoors to eat. We had to be back in Essex today, so bid out hosts goodbye after the evening meal and a couple of thoughtfully-played hands of cards. What with the hot weather and the abundance of lambs on the estate, it really had felt like the start of spring. Maybe the best start for a long time.

Benacre picnic: mum, Tini, Nik, me and Bart

Benacre picnic: yum!

Benacre Hall, Suffolk

Benacre Estate, Suffolk

Benacre Estate sheep, Suffolk

Benacre Estate sheep, Suffolk

Benacre Estate sheep, Suffolk

Benacre Estate sunset, Suffolk

So, at around 08.30 on Sunday morning we started our uneventful zizz up the A12, and prayed that the weather stayed dry, as a walk around the Benacre Estate was in the offing. We were rewarded with clear-ish skies, and so after an egg and muffin arrival breakfast we pulled on our best wellies, gloves and hats, and set about our stomp through the grassy meadows, tree-lined and leaf-covered avenues, and damp back roads. Out for an hour and 40 minutes, we all certainly felt like we’d done more than a fair distance.

It was back to Bart’s apartment for tea, homemade ginger biscuits and presents, although the man himself took himself to bed. During the walk, he started to feel quite nauseous and unwell, and as we suspected, he hadn’t quite avoided Ean’s bug and it developed at an accelerative pace during the afternoon. So, only five of us ate the Tasty Fish Bake mum had found in one of Mr Oliver’s books, and went to a large and indulgent selection of cheeses followed by a game of cards. And as the darkness grew ever darker, we said our goodbyes and wended our way home.

As is usually the case, we’ve had somewhat of a social festive season, what with Andrew and Sheila’s for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, Bart’s for Boxing Day, and Geoff’s for a buffet lunch on the 27th. Then there was Andrew, Sheila and Viv at ours on the 29th and my 37th birthday yesterday, New Year’s Eve. Creatures of habit, we spent that as we usually do, with warmed camembert, French bread and the cat, all on the rug on the lounge floor; a sort of an indoor picnic if you like. We’ve still got a couple of social gatherings to go before work calls us back on Tuesday, but by then we should hopefully be refreshed and ready.

My name is Richard Gooding and I am a marginal speeder. I wasn’t until the first week of November, but a lapse in concentration or just plain ignorance resulted in a speeding ticket landing on the doormat. What was the damage? A £60 fine and 3 penalty points or a National Speed Awareness course for £82 and no points on my licence. You can guess which option I took, although it wasn’t without some deliberation. But, when it comes down to it, £22 seemed a fair price to pay to avoid any endorsements. And all for going 35mph in a 30mph zone, on a country road, where I don’t remember either a camera or a warning sign.

So, the day before Christmas Eve, I found myself driving up the A12 from Essex to Suffolk (courses are usually offered in the county of prosecution) to an industrial unit in Ipswich, and to the four-hour class run by AA DriveTech, a specialist driver training division. There were 18 of us, with over half the class over 45 years of age plus; the instructor informed us that the average age of attendees on the courses was 40, and with up to three courses a day, over 60 people are retrained in the laws of the road daily. Why no young people? They choose to speed apparently, and so aren’t offered the educational alternative that National Speed Awareness courses offer.

The statitstics gave food for thought. Motorways are the safest roads of all, with 55% of drivers accelerating past the limit, while the majority of accidents happen on urban roads; 69% of drivers speed in towns and cities. A speed camera costs a local authority £23,000 to install, and while Suffolk is one of the lowest camera-populated counties (with eight currently in use), I think I was caught by one of the numerous mobile sites. But by far the most shocking figure was that it costs over £1 million pounds to administer just ONE death on the road, and as there were 2222 fatal casualties last year, the money spent soon adds up.

A theory session only, attendees must ‘pass’ the course (though no proof is given), and ‘actively participate’, so there are plenty of ways to interact, from speaking, to watching videos, to voting on multiple-choice questions with handsets straight from the set of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? Basically a PowerPoint-powered refresher of Highway Code information, the courses certainly serve a purpose, and the videos showing changes in braking distances and what happens in a multiple pile-up graphically illustrate what effects even small increases in speed can have on potential accidents. Proof if proof were needed that speed does indeed kill.

It’s not often we stay over at mum’s but this weekend we did just that. It’s not often we go to the ballet either; yesterday’s evening at the Theatre Royal in Norwich was the second time in six months – we hadn’t even watched one before May’s night in London at the Royal Opera House. But, to get us in the mood for Christmas (in early November), mum and Bart invited us to a performance of one of their favourites, The Nutcracker, performed by Northern Ballet.

Basically the story of a little girl whose Nutcracker doll comes to life (and conveniently turns into a Prince), the tale tells of their adventures in icy, wintry lands where snowflakes and Sugar Plum Fairies dance and toys come to life. Performed to Tchaikovsky’s specially-written score, you know more musical pieces from it than you think you do, and as the Northern Ballet Sinfonia were under the stage in Norwich, you forgot you were actually hearing the music played live.

Northern Ballet’s performance of the traditional Christmas ballet was a blaze of colour, and the Theatre Royal lent itself well to such a showing. The costumes were lavish, the backdrops and set pieces charming, and the production well-paced. But, we’ve come to realise that the second half of any ballet is really just to let the prima ballerina have her (more than one) chance in the spotlight, pirouetting time after time, exiting and then entering the stage again and again, adding nothing to the story at all. Still enjoyable, though.

This morning, we headed over to Bart’s apartment on the Benacre Estate for an egg and muffin breakfast. We provided the eggs, while mum and Bart gave us company and post-eating, we all went for a walk through the leafy lanes and sheep-filled fields that make up the 6700-acre Suffolk estate. The 18th century-style rebuilt Benacre Hall stands as the imposing centrepiece of the estate, while surrounding stables and ex-groom houses lend themselves as perfect, getaway-from-it-all apartments in lavish and quiet grounds.

A traditional mixed farming estate situated on the Suffolk Heritage Coast between Lowestoft and Southwold, the majority of the Bencare Estate lies within an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, and has just over 3 miles of eastern coastline. It’s a haven for wildlife, and during our brief visit, we not only saw endless sheep and pheasants, but also a herd of jumping Fallow Deer, along with a solitary Muntjac. You wouldn’t believe that you can see that much wildlife literally a stone’s throw from the main A12 Lowestoft to London trunk road, but for part-time townies like us, it helped make the weekend.

A few steps here, a few steps there and we still couldn’t find it. Due to an already used GPS device waypoint, Nik almost sent us 127km out of the way to find the treasure, but, in the end, find it we did. Another weekend, another geocache, although this time we took Ean and Vicki on their first. Mum and Bart where there with us at Pakefield church, too, but we let the younger two of our party do all of the work. Well, almost all.

As well as treasure, there were sheep. Two, to be exact, sleeping in a fenced off area next to the gravestones at the western end of the churchyard. The woolly pair had the run of the eastern tip of the church’s grounds, too, which was where there straw-filled house was nestled, quite rightly resembling a mini manger. I don’t know how long they’ve been there, but I never knew that the churchyard had live residents, even if they are members of the bovidae family.

Before our treasure-seeking and windy cliff walk, we enjoyed our lunch (Bart and Vicki even had Lobster Thermidor) at The Third Crossing restaurant at Haven Marina, watching the boats bob and up down on the inlet, masts chinking in the low wind while the jetty swayed in the low swell. Cards and yet more hot cross buns followed the rendezvous at the church, and although Bart isn’t quite yet winning at ‘Palace’ (the polite name), he’s getting there.

He certainly did better than on Sunday night, where we think he worked out that no strategy is possibly better than one at all..

Monday was the final day of Christmas family celebrations. Early afternoon we went up to Lowestoft to belatedly exchange presents with Ean and Vikki. A relaxed afternoon was spent at House 3, where we even met the usually reclusive Boo. Suitably (and enjoyably) fed, watered and caught-up, we all then went to mum’s to enjoy yet more food. Dinner was followed by two games of cards and before we knew it, it was time to head for home, not least as we had to feed the two cats next door.

Christmas itself was spent with Nik’s family in Galleywood on the day itself, where, due to the volume of presents, we all must have been good last year. Boxing Day saw mum and Bart come down and congregate on the house, along with Geoff, while Sal, Dan and Will popped in for the afternoon. Sunday was a day of recovery, visiting Geoff for a King’s Tower cold buffet the only excursion. That took us up to yesterday of course, when we left with mum and Bart for the journey to Suffolk. We then had just two days’ rest (the only of the two-week break) before it all started again.

Sandwiched between Christmas and New Year was my 36th birthday on New Year’s Eve. Lunch was eaten on a quiet and cold Mersea Island, while as tradition dictates, we spent the last evening of 2009 on the rug in front of the fire with Oscar, some warm Camembert and a handful of crackers. Post-carbonara at Verde’s of course. New Year’s Day was a repeat of Christmas Day, with the day spent at Andrew and Sheila’s and all of the Chelmsford clan.

So, lots of food, lots of family and lots of very nice presents. The start of 2010 has to be, more than ever (and in financial terms as well as fitness thoughts), a slimmed down one, though…

Even the bikes had a holiday. We spent five days deep in the woods last week, staying at the Center Parcs Elveden Forest holiday village, swimming in the heated pool and cycling on the car-free forest tracks. Nik has been Center Parc-ing many times before, but I popped my forest villa cherry at the 400-acre Suffolk resort. And not only was it very relaxing to be away from the stresses and technology of modern life, it was different to go away this late in the year. Even if it was only to the next county.

From our flat-roofed, two-bedroom, Seventies chic-inspired Comfort Plus villa with its floor to ceiling glass windows to the well-organised central hub of restaurants, shops, and sports facilities, you can see why parents take their kids out of school during term time to make the most of the fresh air and the lull before the Christmas rush. Most Center Parcs holiday villages are the same; a ‘Subtropical Swimming Paradise’ and associated facilities forms the heart of the resort, and the villas are spaced around it, almost in concentric circles.

There’s a lake between each two rows of villas, and paths which link them all. The accommodation really does appear to have risen up from the forest floor; trees surround them on all sides and the vast glazing areas really do give the best views of the natural wildlife that just happens to be an added attraction. We had ducks and geese most days, and we managed to encourage the lakeside heron to come and pose for pictures, like a grumpy old man in a morning coat. We’ve also never seen so many squirrels in one place. They’re very tame, too. We almost had one in the villa as he was being very cheeky.

Yes, a stay in the forest can be very expensive. We booked late and managed to get a good price and do it affordably, and I can’t stress enough that the villas are the best way to do Center Parcs. Yes, there is an on-site hotel at Elveden Forest, but you may as well go somewhere else if you want to do that. The beauty of the Center Parcs setup is that you’re away from everything, living among the trees and nature. It would make the perfect eco-village. Naturally, we self-catered, too, which also cuts down on the cost, and with a supermarket in the central hub, you’re never far away from civilisation or more groceries.

The whole experience could be classed as a form of posh camping. And there’s nothing wrong with that. You can take and pay for as many or as few extra activities as you like. Our only major expense was the hastily-acquired bike rack for the car, but we figured that even if we used it twice at Center Parcs, we’d more than recoup the cost. Yes, it’s true that at most posh campsites you don’t get to swim in the outdoor rapids under a blanket of stars or zip down a tunnel of water, which, after weaving through the exotic plants gaining some speed, spits you out into a plunge pool feeling about 12 years-old, but they’re all part of the Center Parcs appeal. And it’s those parts (along with the safe cycling) which will make us look forward to returning to the woods.

I don’t think you can go wrong with a Little Chef, if it’s good honest food you’re after. They conjure up memories of coming home from Volkswagen shows, as we used to stop off at numerous ones on the A14 after a day of looking at German cars. That was always for tea; I’ve rarely done the first meal of the day.

The Darsham eaterie was almost empty, with only two other tables occupied. People came and people went while we sat looking at the slightly yellow ceiling, old ventian blinds and painted red wood panelling. I don’t know what year it opened, but I don’t think the place has changed much. But that’s part of the appeal; slightly run-down and nostalgic buildings reminiscent of a motoring age gone by, coupled with good and efficient service.

Surely the Heston Blumenthal made over restaurants lose some of that appeal?

Satisfied and full, we arrived in Lowestoft not long after, and bumped into mum, in of all places, Morrisons. We’d gone in to look for Will’s Christmas present and spotted a rather familiar blue Renault Clio in the car park. After we’d surprised mum (and after she’d stopped bumping into people she knew), we all drove into the town centre, where we’d arrange to meet for coffee.

I can’t remember many coffee shops in the town, and Caffé Nero and Starbucks are still conspicuous by their absence, but a gingerbread latte in Costa was just what I needed. We quietly caught up with mum’s news, before she gave us an unofficial tour of the main High Street – somewhere I haven’t been for many years.

It turned out she hadn’t been there for a while either. Many of the well-known Lowestoft names have since disappeared; Morlings music shops have gone, while Chadds has adopted Palmers’ name, as the Great Yarmouth firm owns it. In many ways, the main shopping area reminded me of Basildon – there are many cheap or budget shops, and not many of the young, hip and trendy names you find somewhere like Norwich or Ipswich. And maybe that’s the reason why – they have them, so why should Lowestoft?

At mum’s we could have been eating out. Pizza Express pizzas were accompanied by delicious doughballs, garlic cheese bread and salad, finished off with a small or large glasses of champagne, depending on who was driving. Rhubarb crumble followed, and once the table had been cleared, we cracked open the Trivial Pursuit, for yet more rose-tinted fun.

Like so many things last weekend, I hadn’t ‘done’ Trivial for ages either, but usefully, the pink questions were still ‘Good Times’, so culture vultures can still answer posers on music and TV and anything associated with those mediums. The legendary blue and orange (‘Places’ and ‘Sport and Leisure’ respectively) weren’t as hard as I remember either. We were playing the ‘family edition’ after all.

Coming up from behind, Ean and Vikki were the undisputed champions, though. A multiple-choice question from the middle of the box handed them victory (multiple-choice should never be allowed as the final question), which in a way was good, as we could have been there all night. At just over an hour, it was the quickest game of Trivial Pursuit that I’ve ever played. Nik and I left just after 6pm, to wend our way back home. It didn’t matter that we celebrated Ean’s birthday two weeks late – it was just as much fun doing it belatedly.

Fully fed and watered, we stopped off at Norwich for the afternoon, where we visited my old college haunts, drunk coffee in Gentleman’s Walk watching The Puppet Man (who we thought had retired) and bought chess pieces and a model car from Langley’s who now have even more of a selection of diecast cars than they used to.

But, one of the highlights of the weekend (aside from popping around to Ean, Vikki and Boo’s) was walking in the Suffolk countryside yesterday – something we’ve missed since I moved down to Essex. Dunwich Forest held our chosen paths for strolling through the flora and fauna.

Why Dunwich? Well, two reasons really – we’d never been before (and it’s a walk mum and Bart do regularly), and there are now at least 25 Dartmoor ponies walking around the forest, too. Grazing in the newly-created project area, the little horses were brought in by the Suffolk Wildlife Trust from special breeders from the West Country.

A rare breed in the UK, the ponies have had Dunwich Forest as their wild home since December last year, and will help turning the area into a ‘wildlife rich landscape’, according to the Suffolk Wildlife Trust. The Dartmoors’ grazing will be an important management tool in the creation of a New Forest-style landscape, and will be managed by the Forestry Commission.

It made for a more interesting walk certainly. A stroll down any of the forest paths could result in a pair of soft-furred guardians protecting their green-leaved snacks, perfectly amenable to being stroked and cooed over. We counted 17 of the small four-legged beasts, the largest number mum and Bart had seen in all the time they’ve been walking the forest.

But cute though they were, we didn’t want to get stranded in the dark among the pine trees, so once Bart had found the right path back to the car, we called in at The White Hart at Blythburgh for a bite to eat before we pointed the car south and headed for home, in time to enjoy a Sunday evening in Chelmsford.

Although it appeared to be a usual weekend visit to my original home county, it was actually one of old memories, new beginnings and new discoveries (old college visit and The Puppet Man; Ean, Vikki and Boo’s new house; and the pony-filled forest respectively). Maybe even more so than last time, it was good to be back.

Mum and Bart (below) took us out, and have dined at the Flint House on more than one occasion recently. So much it seems, that on the Saturday night we visited, the personal service was second to none. It’s one of their favourite places in the town to eat, and it’s easy to see why.

Easy to find in the High Street, the unassuming exterior leads into a smart and welcoming interior; all wooden floors, white and deep-coloured walls, and coastal-themed pictures. We were seated in the bar area and were brought flavoured nuts and nibbles while we browsed the menu and took our first sips of the Adnams Fizz we’d ordered.

The area surrounding the Flint House is steeped in history. Situated off the High Street are a series of scores (possibly derived from the Norse ‘Skor’ meaning a cut or furrow), ancient thoroughfares linking the road with others below and behind the buildings atop. The narrow lanes are though to have been originally created by people treading paths in the sloping cliffs as they walked between the High Street and the beach village.

One of these ancient pathways, Wilde Score has direct links to the Flint House itself. The Wilde family lived in the building from 1588 to the 1740s. Constructed in 1586, the Flint House is the oldest house in Lowestoft, and although nearly all of the cottages in the scores are now just parts of the town’s history, the building which now houses the restaurant still stands. Sadly, the look-out tower built by local sailor Sir Thomas Allin does not, although I have my doubts as to these days whether you would need to see any Dutch man of wars approaching anyway.

Our own Dutch man recommended dishes from the extensive menu, and after we’d made our choices and ordered, we were taken and seated upstairs, in a table in the corner with a view of Gulliver, the town’s solitary and imposing wind turbine, who was barely peeping over the tree tops outside. For a Saturday night, we thought it quiet, but as the short waiting time for our meals elapsed, slowly the tables started to fill.

The starters duly arrived, and the ham, quail’s egg and salad dish was well judged and tasty. With plates quickly cleared, the mains arrived in good time. Bart and I chose the sumptuous lamb’s liver and lamb chop with new potatoes and vegetables, which was smooth, rich, and delicious. In especially good service, mum requested that the piece of fresh plaice that came with plaice goujons was replaced by more of the breaded fingers, which the chef duly changed.

The desserts were equally as good, even if we didn’t really need them. My banana fritters, with vanilla and white chocolate pannacotta were presented nicely, while Nik’s Eccles cake and earl grey tea cream sounded intriguing and tasted even better, all served up in a half-filled large teacup and saucer. The strawberry sundae meanwhile was (I’m told), very fruity and cooling, the perfect end to a perfect meal. All of the desserts looked great, with as much care and attention taken over them as our first two courses.

With the mint teas and coffees that finished off the evening, we were brought petit fours, which we didn’t eat. But no worry, they were wrapped in silver foil, and we took them home to enjoy later. It’s that word again – service – and something that will bring diners back again and again. If you enjoy good food, in very pleasant surroundings, with excellent service, then the Flint House is for you. It’s at the very least a four out of five.

• Flint House Restaurant Ltd, 80 High St, Lowestoft, NR32 1XN
  Tel: 01502 573640