Finally I found my way, after eight fails, along the disused railway from Thorpeness to Leiston. I've failed mainly because people have to show off. Not the nice man yesterday who pulled his cowering, floppy eared dog close to heel while he carefully explained where I'd been going wrong - mainly that never in all my eight previous tries had I actually been on the disused railway line at all. 'No, you see, there you'd have been on the common. No, that's the shell pits. Where? Oh. Did you not notice the bunkers and flagpoles and blue signs warning about balls from your right? Yes, the people in the funny trousers. Not walkers exactly, you see. Ah, now, there you were nearly on the old line: all depends on from which direction you approach the pigsties. What you wanted to do was, where the road forks, trust yourself to take the track that don't look like nothing at all, just after you'll have seen what's left of the old platform at Thorpeness Halt. You'll see a tell-tale bridge, go twice over the golf course - that you were actually walking up then back down before - and then you'll approach the pigs just right.'
See, not showing off, just factual bordering on descriptive. Whereas before, the route I must take was variously described thus by, let's call her, G-G Velo: 'Then there's the house where I passed one day on my walk singing a little bit of Madame Butterfly, and someone came out of the house specially to call after me how gorgeous I sounded, and that I was obviously beautifully trained. And then the defunct platform where just as dawn was coming up one summer however many years ago, the Crastley boy was ever so lucky to have me as sex tutor and he gasped that I was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Gasped. And then will be the piggies...'
Into which no doubt she commanded the demon, and they oinked all the way to Sizewell and threw themselves over.