There is something appealing about closed holiday resorts where the bumper cars stand as still as the women at the donut stall, hoping in vein for a customer.

That’s what Clacton was like today. Cold. Windy. The sea whipped up by the gale, churning about beneath the pier as I trod carefully on the close-fitting planks. Reaching the end, I could lean into the wind and it would hold me up like an invisible net. Back towards land it was scooping up great troughs of water and flinging them up and onto the land. It threw them up the 20 steps at Frinton so that they went over the sea defences and pelted the front of the beach huts with the stones and sand that had been trapped in the waves.

It clawed at the corrigated roofs of the cheap, disposable cafe buildings so that they rattled and creaked like the fleet of a third-world airline and at times I thought I might be killed if they were torn from their fixings and span down the beach towards me.

I took refuge in Walton and walked to the end of the Naze, through hedgerows heavy with the fruits of late autumn - ripe blackcurrants and rotting brambles - that baffled the wind and calmed my wildly flapping coat. In patches, the trees gave way to weeds, and nettles as tall as my face that snapped back and forth like a bullwhip, reaching for my cheeks and eyes as I ducked out of their reach.

My six days of self-imposed unemployment have been six to remember. And six I’d gladly repeat.

Tomorrow I start my new job.

1. Stealing fruit
   It's been such a hot dry summer that the autumn fruits are already starting to ripen, and so today we headed down to the...
   
   
2. Frinton to Walton
   The gym was fairly unpleasant this evening. I went for a swim, but it turned into a brief splash from one end of the pool...
   
   
3. Foggy Frinton
   Walton Pier, in the fog It's been a weekend of contrasts, if nothing else. It started in Chelmsford in glorious sunshine, and after picking...