It sits quietly near the village, a small, rising plain that stretches toward ancient Dunwich.

This former city, capital of East Anglia at one time, was ruthlessly destroyed by Mother Nature.

Perhaps because the people were unworthy of life.

The common, and its many walks are delightful to behold, mysterious too, until that storm smashed it back in ‘87.

Today it is but a shadow of its former self. I know, I lived there.

Heather and shell craters abound there. Relics from the last war, where British tanks practised in case the Jerries landed.

Which they did, but not here. Oh no, Shingle street was their point of arrival. Their point of utter defeat.

A secret to this day. The locals know better. They remember the injured, the pow’s. The mumblings of delirious men claiming they would conquer England.

As if!

Deer can be seen beyond the ‘No Entry Zone.’ Many brown and beautiful deer. Not friendly mind you.

Just there.

Further war relics can be found if you wander the forest, or a fragment of one. If you dare.

Be not there after sunset though. Others lurk after that time. Just waiting for the lonely traveller.

Or the foolish individual who knows no fear.

Tread carefully mind you. UXB’s still lurk. I should know. Found one back in ’84. An unexploded phosphorous shell. The local Bobby dealt with that one.

A story is told of children playing on that common. Playing with a similar device. Arms blown off.

I was just lucky.

So tread your path through that common, the common where Westleton lies.

Tread with caution, tread with fear, tread with delight.