Away from it all in Norfolk
Written by a 60 year old retired male from Brighton, East Sussex.
August 12th is almost two weeks old, but it’s the future too, because we want to go back. This was the last full day of our walking holiday along the North Norfolk coast, ghastly weather forecast, but when you wake in a huge and comfortable bed, with a full English breakfast in prospect taken in a lovely panelled room overlooking the marshes, then it doesn’t seem to matter.
Anyway, the weather was fine for the moment. Claire and I descended the steps of the Old Custom House, in Wells-next-the-sea, punctual as ever; Martin and Rhona not far behind, and the two lads a few minutes later. The usual negotiations took place as to the swapping of eggs and sausages, and Martin politely managed not to grimace at my excellent and most succulent slice of local smoked haddock (fish does unpleasant things to him). Our host, a charming affable man who’d settled in Norfolk because it reminded him of Arabia (the dunes), made suitable jokes about our eating habits and advised as to today’s walk. He explained that we were privileged to watch the sea come almost to his front door (the tides completely cover the marshes two or three days a year), and told us of his work in the local community ‘managing change’.
Whatever he’d done seemed to be working, because Wells is a charming town that has succeeded in growing without damaging its roots. In fact, much of this stretch of coast - country as well as the towns and villages - was a happy reminder, to these denizens of a largely over-developed Sussex south coast, of the gentle blend of breezes, beaches, sea views and unassuming small-scale habitations that prevailed along the English seaboard in the nineteen-fifties. Or has fifty years and M. Hulot’s Holiday tinted my spectacles a sweeter shade of pink? A little tin-pot railway conducts happy campers and lazy walkers between town and beach (one mile), so we did that. There is so much sand there, it goes on for miles, but the little beach at Wells is contained, cosy, and lined with beach huts.
If we ever have grandchildren I want to take them there. Our route took us through pine woods, continental under the hot August sun (no rain yet). This could be Germany - well-ordered, spaciously uncrowded, clean, everyone so well-behaved, and the footpaths all neatly signed. But was there a poignancy to this too? Will we really see this beautiful country in such kind harmony again? What about these terrible cuts, what devastation are we in for? Why can’t they just raise taxes like they used to? But the moment triumphs over whatever future might be lurking, and the blackberries are sweet and juicy (and always will be). We emerge eventually out onto the dunes, in full view of the open sea. This could be a bleak and fierce place, but not today - not yet anyway.
There are a few people, dogs of course, and the curse of plastic (bags, bottles, bits and pieces). But the space is overwhelming, full of light, ingeniously patterned clouds, and lolling, endless dunes (inhabited by the occasional nudist - Claire gets in a slight panic). We improvise a picnic spot in the middle of nowhere, and I drag over a log to sit on. After about five groups of people have emerged from the dunes behind us, said hello, and moved on, I look at the map and realise we have camped by the one path that trails up to the sea from the only carpark. Curses. But it’s a warm and immortal moment nonetheless. My baguette, now in its second day, is a triumph of economy and deliciousness, as are the plums, procured back in town, and also that good eggy cheese I bought in Sheringham on Tuesday (why didn’t I buy a bit more?). Others can tuck into their supermarket tuna-and-tomato rolls, but the picnic connoisseur eschews all their urbanised kitsch food.
Tim Shelton-Jones
