When Dickens Came to Stay at Woodfarm Barns

It was upon an agreeable and temperate morning, sometime in the latter months of the year, that I, having been weary by the smog and sound of London, found myself conveyed by slow but steady means to that most pastoral corner of England known as Suffolk. There, amid gently undulating lanes and the sweet perfume of hedgerow and hay, I came upon my lodgings for the week — a charming retreat known as Woodfarm Barns with a similarly charming proprietor by the name of Carl.

The place was most commodious in character. Indeed, no sooner had I crossed the threshold of my appointed barn — all in fine timber and warm brick — than I found myself seized by a sensation most unfamiliar to a man of my restless spirit: peace. The fire already crackled in the grate, a basket of logs close at hand; a plump sofa stood invitingly in the parlour; and a loaf of fresh bread, with a pat of butter to match, awaited on the kitchen table as though set out by some unseen but kindly host.

Most charming of all, however, was that my faithful hound, Bumbles — a rough but loyal terrier of no great pedigree but of much devotion — was welcomed not as a burden, but as an honoured guest. Rare is the innkeeper or landlord in London who does not cast a suspicious eye upon the four-legged traveller, yet here, dogs are greeted with open arms, soft towels for muddy paws, and even — I speak the truth! — a biscuit or two placed in a ceramic bowl marked with the word “WOOF.” As if that were not enough – and do take my word for it – there was even a dog passport available for him. I’ve no idea what a passport is, much less why a dog should need one, but it was a delightful touch.

My days unfolded with a most agreeable rhythm. I took to walking the nearby country lanes in the company of Bumbles, who would dart to and fro in high spirits. The sea, ever present in scent and suggestion, was not far, and each afternoon I would find myself upon a new shore. At Dunwich, where legends say a mighty town was swallowed by the sea, I walked alone, the wind in my coat and the shingle rattling like coins in a miser’s purse. At Southwold, I watched the sun fall behind a row of beach huts, each painted with defiant cheer. At Walberswick, I let Bumbles chase the gulls while I rested my bones upon a driftwood bench.

The evenings brought fresh comfort, for Suffolk is not short of public houses — no, indeed! One night I supped ale and fine fish pie at the Unruly Pig, whose fire was warm and whose company was warmer still. Another, I dined by lamplight at a roadside inn, with a game of cribbage played between bites. The names escape me, but the atmosphere, dear reader, certainly does not.

And so it was, with belly full and heart content, that I spent my time at Woodfarm Barns — a place where man and beast alike may find comfort, good cheer, and a most civilised spot of rest.

In short, I was content — deeply, heartily, and thoroughly content.

I understand you can view the availability of their Barns and Barges for rent here, though I’ve yet to understand what here refers to in this instance, nor what a blog is or where one can hope to find one.