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What follows is an account of my walk around the county of Norfolk ...wearing ill fitting boots...a leaky anorak...carrying a cheap rucksack containing a flimsy sleeping bag. Apart from that...I was well equipped. Bishy Barnabee is the old Norfolk word for a ladybird! After attempting to persuade every publisher in the European Community to accept this masterpiece....I now offer it freely to any and all who may wish to read it..........I dedicate it to Stuart of Little Cressingham

Walking over Bishy Barnabees

The first fat raindrops hitting the windscreen should have made me abandon the whole ill conceived plan. My friend Cindy had agreed to, as she put it, release me back into the wild. She had driven me and my badly packed, bargain rucsack into Norfolk’s vast Thetford Forest. Raindrops continued to splatter the screen as we crept along looking for a narrow opening in the trees that marked the point at which the ancient Peddars’ Way crossed the road.

I had only recently decided to take up backpacking. Being in my, shall we say middle years and having never been a walker, or camped in anything needing less than six poles and a degree in architecture to erect, the decision to circumnavigate Norfolk may seem foolhardy. I had however prepared carefully.

A week earlier I had taken my rucsack into the woods for a trial run. Not at that time having all the equipment I would need, I loaded up with books to simulate the 20 Kilograms I anticipated carrying out in the wilderness.

It seemed a little heavier than expected, and indeed, as I swung it up to my shoulder, I executed a graceful pirouette, ending up sprawled across the sofa under the Waverley Encyclopaedia, Mrs Beeton and Female Labour Under Socialism.

I persevered and soon worked out a technique involving balancing the rucsack on the back of a chair and reversing into it. I staggered off to tramp through the local woods hoping against hope that as I grew in strength and experience, I might be able to straighten my back and look at the track ahead rather than my feet.

I managed a circuit of about three miles without being arrested on suspicion of robbing the local library, and reasoned that my intended daily stages of twelve to fifteen miles should be easily achievable. After all, I would have all day and surely each day I would grow stronger? I had visions of doing the last fifty miles at a brisk trot.

My intended route was a circuit of Norfolk taking in the Peddars’ Way from Thetford Forest up to the coast at Hunstanton, The North Norfolk Coastal path along to Cromer, The Weavers’ Way diagonally down to Great Yarmouth finishing with a fast romp along the Angles Way which would take me back to my starting point. A total of about 225 miles

It looked wonderful on the map. Little hamlets with windmills and unbridged fords, doubtless home to an ample bosomed Mrs Miggins the local shop owner, busy weighing sugar in brown paper bags. Village greens where one might spot a romantic gypsy encampment with a row of spotless washing hanging from the chestnut trees.

But back to the steamed up car, the raindrops and the leaden skies. The forecast spoke of scattered showers, maybe becoming more organised later.

Having planned the trip for days, I was reluctant to let this put me off and pulling on my remarkably inexpensive waterproofs, I trusted that I would prove more organised than the showers. Cindy looked on in blank incredulity as I sat the rucsack on the car, backed in and buckled myself to it. Tugging the straps so tight that I struggled to breathe, I choked out a thankyou, said my farewell, and with her pleas to phone if it all went horribly wrong ringing in my ears, I set out into the Norfolk bush.

I tried terribly hard to walk easily and confidently in an upright position until she was out of sight, but soon, rustling and squeaking, wheezing and stumbling I drooped back into the Neanderthal posture so familiar from my previous tests. I say “tests” as prior to the previous week’s full scale rehearsal with a bag of books; I had very sensibly walked the first few miles of the Peddars’ Way to test my ability to carry a load over rough country.

Not at that stage owning camping equipment; after all I had two weeks to sort that out, I had used two shopping bags with shoulder straps crossed diagonally around my neck. These were laden with whatever had come to hand up to the necessary 40 pounds. As I had used the bathroom scales to ascertain this with some accuracy, much of the contents had a lavatorial flavour. In went the loo brush; paper, lifebuoy and Toilet Duck to fine-tune the weight of the bags.

This preliminary test proved that, yes, I could carry the weight, but no, my neck could not withstand the effect of the crossed straps slowly throttling me.

I stumbled on, hands clasped under each bag to try to lift them sufficiently to breathe from time to time, and managed a creditable two miles before collapsing exhausted. This explains why I had asked Cindy to drop me off part way along the Peddars’ Way; no sense walking the same bit twice. Besides, I think the memories would have flooded back and caused morale to fall to an unacceptable level on a trip which was to place such demands on a virgin hiker.

It was less easy to ignore the purple bruises still evident on my throat, but you can’t have everything.

Thus I trudged on. The rain continued to fall, appearing very well organised already to me. I wore a green PVC anorak with a faulty zip, green overtrousers which were totally waterproof…although rather less breatheable. On my head was an ex Malayan campaign jungle hat. My boots were quite new and again very well priced…they and my feet had attempted to break one another in as I wore them a couple of times to do the shopping. My socks were the real thing, guaranteed absolutely no blisters in five hundred miles. I doubted I could walk that far, so felt quite well taken care of in that department. My budget rucsack contained an ultra lightweight one-person tent, a synthetic sleeping bag guaranteed to be snug down to 10 degrees Celsius, a gas stove and a selection of cooking utensils. Stores included pot noodles and a big bag of vegetarian sausage mix.

It seemed unlikely that the rain could last much longer. It drummed on my soft and soggy hat, dripping uncomfortably down my neck. The scenery I glimpsed from my stooped position seemed marvellous though; beautiful water meadows grown lush and tall in the recent wet weather. They had also grown very wet and discharged their load of rainwater down my legs as I blundered through.

I crossed the river Thet by an attractive wooden footbridge and made quite good progress through pine forests and over heathland. I vowed to return one day in dry weather without the contents of a small family hardware business on my back.

Eventually I reached the main A11 trunk road. I stood Quasimodo-like at the verge as traffic thundered by hurling up sheets of cold spray. After a strained look both ways, I broke into a lumbering trot to cross between cars of leering motorists. By now I had become very wet indeed. I had real doubts about the ability of my rucsack to keep the contents watertight. Should I find a ‘phone and call Cindy? No, it’s bound to stop soon.

On the other side of the road I noticed two young lads kitted out in waterproofs and carrying backpacks. They stood dripping and shivering by a large Volvo estate. Inside sat a well-dressed man who I took to be their father. As I drew alongside I heard him issuing orders from the snug dry car, Classic FM playing gently in the background. The kids were being sent off on their Duke of Edinburgh Award trek. Dad got out of the car, popped up a Martini golf umbrella and gave the boys a manly pat on their already soggy shoulders. “Hurry up, I’m getting wet! ” he urged as the lads trudged off along the by now, muddy track. Bless them; they looked a picture of abject misery…as probably did I.

Time for my lunch break. But how and where? The rain still teemed down and opening the rucsack would quickly soak the contents; besides it was hardly the weather for a jolly picnic on a mossy bank with lashings of ginger beer. I stumbled into the woods that bordered the track and sought shelter under the trees. I was by now beginning to feel a little chilly too. A rummage in the rucsack unearthed sandwiches that were dry, and a host of essential equipment that was not. Being resourceful, I used a black plastic refuse sack to fashion an attractive cover for my pack. Images of stable doors and missing horses swam before me.

As I squatted shivering and dripping beneath the trees, I watched a cheery couple clomp past deep in conversation. They wore top quality anoraks with deep hoods and their packs were fitted with tailored covers. I watched in pouting envy as they disappeared in the distance. I would however be meeting them again in sunnier circumstances.

Not really refreshed, I once more set sail. Again I marvelled at the scenery, only partially obscured by the rain. The Peddars’ Way itself runs for almost 50 miles and follows an old Roman road which itself may well have been built on a much older trackway. So, I was possibly trudging in the footsteps of woad covered ancient Britons .I probably looked about as attractive with the rain running down my neck and the dye running from my jacket.

At its southern end, the Peddars Way passes through the sandy heathland known as Breckland. A Part of this has long been given over to the military for battle training and the track skirts this mystery area of muffled thumps and rattling gunfire. In the heart of the training area lies an idyllic English village forcibly evacuated long ago to provide realistic conditions for the forces to practice duffing up Johnny Foreigner. The people who left and their descendants are regularly taken back on bus trips to revisit their now somewhat secondhand former home.

I stopped again briefly to catch my breath, but it’s hard to relax in the rain. It’s too wet to put anything down or to sit. Sandwiches get soggy unless wolfed down quickly. So, I marched on, feet beginning to swell and twinge. In hindsight, that was the cause of many of my later problems. Being unable to stop and rest, unwilling to take a peep at what was happening in my boots.

In fact, ignorance was more blisters than bliss.

I tramped on past the wonderfully named Pingo Trail. This was said to be a fascinating area of circular ponds left by the Ice Age. I toyed with the idea of diverting to take a look but the weather being the way it was, I felt that the ponds might soon be diverting to visit me instead. About 8 miles from my starting point, I reached civilization in the form of the Dog and Partridge Inn.

It looked warm and welcoming, whereas I looked like a swamp rat on a bad hair day. I stood and peered through the window, a pool of water forming around my big muddy boots that contained my big throbbing feet. A foolish decision somehow floated to the surface. Don’t stop here, go on to the campsite only a short distance away, set up camp and dry out before returning.

So, what on earth possessed me to plod on past the site and head for the next one some 8 miles further ahead? It could only have been the foolish assumption that it would be better to unpack and make camp after the rain had stopped, as it surely must? Be that as it may, I nevertheless began to hobble on through the flooded track, my feet now hurting horribly and not daring to investigate the state of my camping equipment, my long distance socks or my underwear.

At length I reached the village of Great Cressingham. A phone box beckoned but weary, battered and soaked as I was, I just could not admit defeat. The campsite I had been heading for was actually at the back of a B&B and as no one was home, I repaired to the local pub to wait. I stood on the doormat and began a struggle with my wet clothes in an attempt to find a dry layer somewhere underneath. Wet nylon clung to wet denim and hopping from one leg to the other and again to neither, I fell in a cursing heap on the doormat.

The bar went very quiet. Half a dozen blokes looked on open mouthed.

“Well, what have we got here?” asked the tall one.

“What are you doing out in this.. Are you daft?” enquired his neighbour

I struggled to pull off my muddy boots.

“Don’t worry about that!” said the landlord “ never notice a bit more muck in here.”

Feeling horribly embarrassed, I squelched to the bar and ordered a beer and tried to explain what had brought me out on a day like this. Not easy, as I had long since forgotten myself.

The beer flowed and the conversation turned to my plans for the night. It was obvious that I was wet through and that my camping equipment was likely to be soaked too. I stood and dripped trying to laugh along with the bar-room banter. The silly fixed grin now making my ears ache.

To make matters worse, apparently the campsite owner worked all day and wouldn’t be home for hours yet. As rain lashed against the windows I really thought, “This is it, adventure over. Where’s the ‘phone?” I began to feel really cold now after standing still for a while and the thought of home and a hot bath seemed extremely seductive. However, the adventure was only just beginning.

Big John had been the main protagonist in the barrage of mickey taking, largely along the lines of ” He don’t half look wet don’t he, must have been out in the rain; do you reckon he’s drip dry?” He suddenly said in a loud voice,

“ You can sleep in my caravan if you want”

Everybody laughed uproariously

“ Har har har…hev he still got chickens in it?”

“ Would that be the 50 quid a night caravan or the expensive one?”

I didn’t know what to say.

When Big John went off to the Gents, the landlord leaned over and said

“ Don’t let the mickey taking put you off. He’s got a heart of gold really. He means it” And so it was that I ended up hurtling through the lanes, sloshing through huge puddles, in a four by four pick-up piloted by my new friend.

Shortly, we came to a bungalow with a caravan parked neatly underneath the carport. John took me to the front door, eyed me up and down and said

“ Wait here, I’ll get the wife”

Not surprisingly, she looked somewhat startled by this turn of events. Once she was over the initial shock however, she quickly offered to dry off my clothes in the tumble drier. John led me to the caravan and tugged open the sticking door. An unmistakable odour of dampness seeped from within. We clambered inside. It had clearly not been used, other than for the storage of an old mattress, for a very long time.

“Well, what do you think? “ asked John

“Very nice” I heard myself mumble

“Great! Now, you’d probably have spent 20 quid on B&B wouldn’t you? I’m happy to let you sleep here for 15. Full English breakfast thrown in. What do you say to that?”

There were plenty of things I could have said to that, but what squeaked out was ” Fine, thankyou very much”

“OK then get some of your wet stuff off and come to the back door. Whatever you do, don’t just walk in right?”

“Have you got a toilet I could use?”

“ Ah, good point, “said John “ yes, good point. We’re off out soon and if you want to come in to use the bog, I’d better introduce you to Simba. He’s a bit of a bugger. Might have you if he don’t know you”

Simba turned out to be a Rhodesian ridgeback. I believe they use them to hunt hippos, or possibly lions. He clearly didn’t like me and had to be restrained by John. I could hear him snarling at the loo door as I sat within. I could feel a bout of constipation coming on.

We decided against my using the bathroom while they were away.

“ Just go in the garden” said John “ It’ll be alright, oh, and have you got the fifteen quid? Probably best I take it up front eh?”

Returning to the caravan, I proceeded to strip off my clothes. This was the first chance that I had had to really take stock. I had been wearing a red fleece jacket over a white T-shirt under my leaky anorak. I now had a pink fleece jacket and a red(dish) T-shirt where the colour had bled.

The overtrousers had done a great job of keeping out the rain, although not being breathable- I was just as wet from my own sweat. Possibly too much information. My long distance socks were also soaked and beneath them, or rather glued to them, my feet were in a truly dreadful state. Huge blisters everywhere.

I dried off as best I could and dressed in the driest of the wet clothes from my pack. John’s wife collected the wet stuff to pop into the drier. An amazing woman. You just got the impression that if he had brought home a travelling circus, she’d have taken it in her stride and rustled up some hay for the elephants. I draped my wet sleeping bag from the curtain pelmets and lit my Camping Gaz stove to both cook and to warm the caravan a little.

I had just rummaged through my pack and fished out the Pot Noodles to prepare for supper, when John appeared. He tugged at the swollen door almost overbalancing the stove roaring away on the work surface. Dangerous stuff.

“We’re off out now” he said, adding gruffly ” Here’s something for you”

He thrust a bottle of Lambrusco sparkling wine into my hands. A few minutes later, his wife appeared with my lovely fluffy warm dry clothes! I finished preparing the meal and having a spare gas cartridge, decided to allow the stove to burn itself out.

Admittedly the atmosphere was somewhat steamy, but the combination of wine, Pot noodles, the flickering light from the stove and my book about wartime Chindits surviving in the jungles of Malaysia gave me a warm comfortable feeling, broken only by the need to pee in the herbaceous border from time to time.

My sleeping bag had dried off quickly and after writing up my journal for the day, I snuggled inside. The gas stove spluttered out. I felt that the glow from my feet would probably have illuminated the caravan, but using jungle fighting mind control techniques now familiar to me from the book, I tried to forget the pain and eventually, after listening for a while to the rain still drumming on the roof, I drifted off to sleep.

I slept well and awoke to the rumbling throaty growls of the ridgeback as John took him out for “walkies” or maybe “snarlies” or “threatenies”.

But joy! The sun was shining. The sky was eggshell blue. A bright new day.

I would walk miles. Well, I thought that I would. That was until my poor battered feet hit the floor. Oh dear. Agony would be the word. Well, it would have been the correct word if only they had hurt a little less. They were truly an awful sight. I patched them up as best I could with plasters and limped to the house door.

John cooked breakfast and restrained the Hound of the Baskervilles while I gulped it down. As I sipped hot coffee, he sidled over and said brusquely

“ Here’s a bit of change”

He dropped half a dozen pound coins into my hand and snorted,

“ Alright then? You ready for the off?“

His good lady came through to wish me well.

I re-packed the rucsack, carefully rolling the sleeping bag in a big polythene bag provided by my hosts.

I thanked them both for all that they had done for me and set off into the blue. Absolute stars both of them.

My feet hurt dreadfully. I wondered how on earth I would ever reach far off Swaffham today. It looked to be about 8 or 9 miles on the map. I fathomed that covering a mile at a time and resting in between might be the way to tackle it. The sun beat down although I had to skirt massive puddles across the lanes as I made my way back towards the Peddars’ Way. I wasn’t far off course and soon rejoined the route. Soon I was steaming yet again, this time from the heat. I stopped to rest on a wide grassy verge by a hedge. I draped what damp clothing remained amongst the branches to dry fully and lay back on the grass to rest.

The sound of voices approaching roused me. It was the walking couple from the previous day. They stopped to chat. Apparently Joan and Trevor had walked almost every long distance footpath in Britain and thought they would do a quick lap of Norfolk to add to the tally.

When they learned that yesterday had been my very first day’s walking ever, they were fulsome in their praise. How on earth had I managed to stick it out? And camping out too, why, they’d used a Bed and Breakfast and were glad of it too!

Lying toad that I am, I allowed them to think that I had slept through the storm in my tent and added modestly that I was sure that it could have been a lot worse. They asked did I want to walk a way with them?

Knowing that I could barely hop, I deceitfully declined, saying I wanted to savour the peace of the countryside a little longer, but hoped to see them later.

Eventually I pulled everything together, re-packed, and carried on.

How can I describe how bad my feet were? Every time I stopped, I pulled off my socks, paddled in puddles, patted myself dry and frequently renewed the plasters. All to little avail. Well, actually, to no avail whatsoever. I hobbled and winced my way through lovely countryside, occasionally trying to convince myself that this is how pilgrims of old felt and that it was good for the erm, soul if not the soles.

Late in the afternoon I reached the junction with the A47 trunk road and limped pathetically over to the MacDonald’s situated by the roundabout. I dined on some sort of Real Meal Deal, wondering whether I dare camp in the bushes nearby. I reflected on the fact that I had been out here in the bush for not much more than 24 hours. Already my legs were like jelly and my feet like burgers. The dye had run on my budget fleece and now the straps from my rucsack were beginning to cut grooves into my shoulders. Wonderful.

I decided against camping amongst the bushes and trudged on through Swaffham to a lovely clean, well cared for campsite just the other side of town. As related earlier, I had left little to chance on this trip and had practised some of the tasks I would face well in advance, hence the bag of books and strangulation by shopping bag. Sadly, I had not been able to find a large enough piece of grass on which to erect my new tent. Admittedly it was only about two metres long and one wide, but well, that’s the way it was!

What a sight I must have made. Tent spread on the ground, hobbling painfully from side to side, hopping over it at times, trying various combinations of poles and pegs, until at last a sort of drunken wigwam emerged from the chaos. Using a discarded brick. I thumped in some lightweight alloy tent pegs, ruining about 50 percent and bashing my thumb at regular intervals.

I light-headedly blew up my airbed, almost fainting in the process, and unrolled my synthetic modern sleeping bag. Another bargain. Camping at last. This was what it was all about. I unloaded fully and made myself at home. After preparing and eating a nutritious salad I settled down with my book. Well. I say salad, admittedly it didn’t contain anything green, but it did include nuts and crisps and things like that-chocolate and so on. Then, after yet another attempt at dressing my wounded feet, I settled down for the night.

God it was cold. I had brought along a t-shirt as a nightie but this was soon supplemented by the rest of my clothes, an ordnance survey map tucked inside my shirt and a pair of underpants on my head to cut heat loss.

I shuddered and shivered through a freezing cold night. I felt it most in the small of my back. Nothing I could do would warm me. I considered getting up and going for a jog. Then I remembered that I couldn’t walk. I had thoughtfully sawn the neck off a plastic Coca Cola bottle to serve any natural needs in the night. I didn’t use it. In fact it might well have frozen if I had.

Morning came and time for a rethink. As I struggled to walk across the gravel to the toilet block, I knew I could go no further. I determined to miss the next stretch and catch a bus to Hunstanton up on the coast. Hopefully, I could lie up for a day or two for my feet to recover and then carry on from there. Apart from the beautiful Castle Acre, I reasoned that all I would miss would be several miles of sugar beet. I quickly packed and visited the site office in search of a bus timetable. The owner turned out to be an ex local government officer who had only recently changed career and bought the site. A splendid chap, he offered me a ride into town in his car. It might otherwise have meant a taxi-or an ambulance.

I felt a strange mixture of relief and disappointment as I boarded the bus to Kings’ Lynn. Mostly it just felt great to sit down on something soft, although my multi coloured t-shirt and generally bedraggled appearance attracted a great deal of unwanted attention from my fellow passengers.

All too soon it was time to forsake the comfort of the coach and fight my way back into the backpack.

Now a 40-pound pack is not insignificant. You know it’s there. You tend to bash into people before you get to know your new working width. It becomes difficult to enter shops or squeeze through gaps. Turning round is particularly hazardous. On the Peddars’ Way, this is unimportant; in Kings’ Lynn it begins to matter. I managed to trash several charity shops before finding a tasteful, and cheap, replacement for the inadvertently tie-dyed t-shirt.

I waited a while for the bus on to Hunstanton. Lots of people wanted to stop and ask embarrassing questions like, “How far have you walked with that?”

An honest answer seemed wholly inappropriate and would doubtless have disappointed my new found fan club. Thus I lied through my teeth.

“ Ooh, you must be so strong!” cooed an ancient, but still comely lady wearing a long Mac, a knitted beret and clutching a leatherette shopping bag.

(Remember, I had been away from civilization for a long time now)

“ Well, you get used to it, hardly know it’s there after a while “ I dissembled.

My blue face and struggle for breath rather giving the lie to the latter boast.

It seemed strange being the centre of so much attention; after all, backpackers were surely not that uncommon? Although maybe the fact that most of them tend to stick to footpaths and steer clear of bus stations increased my rarity value. Time passed quickly as I chatted with, and grievously misled, my new friends. Soon the bus came into view. It was at that moment that I developed a knee-clenching urge to pee. The loos were a long way off and I just knew that I couldn’t hold out for the next 40 minutes on the bus.

To the astonishment of the rest of the bus queue, I heaved my pack onto my back and set off at an ungainly lope for the toilets. I really had no choice; well, none that would be considered decent and hygienic.

As with charity shops, so with toilet cubicles. The danger of becoming wedged in place can hardly be exaggerated. You can’t leave the pack outside the cubicle; it might get pinched- or worse still, detonated by the bomb disposal squad. You have to struggle in like a leatherneck turtle tackling a kissing gate. Naturally the bus had long gone when I emerged.

I waited a further 40 minutes for the next bus. Amazing, considering that in Norfolk, calendars are mostly more useful than timetables.

“Next bus? That’ll be about Wednesday I reckon!”

Struggling onto a bus wearing a backpack is about as easy as squeezing one into a loo cubicle. You hover at the front, attempting to undo the straps and slip the lop-sided monstrosity into the luggage rack, the little tin mug tied on the back threatening to take out the eye of anyone foolish enough to sit nearby.

As the pack comes free, the driver inevitably chooses that very moment to smack the bus into gear and roar off into the traffic. There is a complex formula about force being something to do with weight multiplied by speed. Thus, hurtling out of control down the aisle of a country bus with an errant backpack is somewhat akin to the horrors of a loose cannon below decks on Nelson’s Victory. This is even more amusing, and potentially dangerous, for onlookers when one forgets to undo the chest or waist strap on the pack causing it to rotate around one’s circumference as the coach hits a bump and the bearer moonwalks above the floor in conditions of zero gravity.

A glimpse of historic Castle Rising in the distance, a sign directing one to Her Majesty’s holiday home at Sandringham, the world famous Caley’s Mill lavender farm at Heacham -all passed by in a blur, probably caused by vibration. But, how much better for me culturally than tramping over endless fields? We chugged up the one in eighty hill at the approach to Hunstanton, or “Sunny Hunny” as it is cheerily, if oft inaccurately known. The only seaside town on the east coast to face west, Hunstanton offers wonderful sunsets over the sea - albeit combined with a distant view of Lincolnshire’s Friskney Marshes.

I disembarked and painfully made my way towards a campsite I had found listed in a walker’s guide to the Peddars Way. It turned out to be a very large commercial site with caravans, kiddies’ roundabouts and a swimming pool. The reception office was located at the end of a long gravel drive. It was probably about 300 yards, but to my tortured soles, seemed never ending. The attractive young woman at the desk greeted me with a rather weak and somewhat forced smile.

I dumped the pack on the floor and heaved a sigh of relief.

“ I’d like to camp for a night or two”

“Sorry, but you can’t”

“Pardon?”

“Sorry, but we don’t take single-sex parties”

“Single sex…er..?”

“Parties”

“ But I’m not a party…although I suppose I am single sex, but I can’t help that can I?”

“Sorry, that’s the rules”

To the accompaniment of my hissing and singing feet, I argued and pleaded, but after checking with her supervisor, she confirmed that I was not welcome. Apparently single sex parties often had drinking orgies and, even when they arrived alone, usually brought back hordes of boozy louts later on.

I believe that if the Olympics were to include the 1500 metres hobble, I would be favourite to bring home gold for Britain. I made my way disconsolately towards the town centre. The promenade at Hunstanton is very pleasant; lovely safe sands with characteristic red pebbles. An ancient WW2 DUKW amphibious vehicle offered trips out to Seal Island. Apparently the locals amuse themselves by trying to convince the unwary that the land they can see across the Wash is in fact Holland.

I arrived at the tourist office only to be told that there was no other campsite in town. I stood rocking and swaying on my heels, staring blankly at the lady behind the counter. I was about to biblically shake the dust from my boots and leave Hunny with a powerful curse of eternal sunless-ness, when

A bright Scottish voice piped up from the back,

“ Is the laddie looking to camp?”

“ He is, and he looks about done for” her colleague accurately observed.

“Well, I’ll ring my friend Mary,” trilled my Scottish angel “ She has a smallholding along the coast near Holme and might let you camp there if I ask nicely”

She rang through and discovered that indeed Mary would let me camp and in fact, had a couple camping on her land already.

I thanked her profusely and shuffled off to catch a bus. The north Norfolk coast is blessed with a service known as the Coast Hopper, a fleet of small buses driven by chatty, cheeky drivers unseen since the days of Ealing comedies.

I was soon pouring myself out onto the roadside at nearby Holme and introducing myself to Mary.

Chapter two

Mary was a smallholder who also sold a few vegetables to passing callers. I did my bit for rural diversification by purchasing 3 potatoes and 2 carrots for my evening meal, and plodded round behind the greenhouse to set up camp. I quickly pitched the tent…then quickly took it down and tried again- before deciding that it was as tent shaped as it was likely to become before nightfall.

As a treat, I decided to use my emergency veggie sausage mix to make some ..some… er…flat things to fry as an accompaniment to my fresh vegetables.

The one-pot technique involved the use of a tin mug on which I had thoughtfully scratched a measuring line. Just pop the mix into the mug, add water up to the mark, stir vigorously and squeeze it into balls. Flatten and mould to shape; wipe hands on trousers, remove bits of grass and fry. Then later, scrape remains of burnt mix from the aluminium frying pan with a penknife.

I wanted to round off my meal with a coffee but found that I had somehow lost my poly bag of dried milk. I ambled over to say hi to the folks camping over the other side of the field and purloin a drop of milk in the process.

They were super people. A pacifist vegetarian couple who hoped to visit the site of the recently discovered “Sea-henge”, a prehistoric timber circle found on the beach nearby after an exceptionally low tide. This had become a focus for pilgrimages by druids ancient and modern plus various other interested mystics….and inhabitants of alternative realities.

My new friends, Duncan and Elsa, were delightful and I received more dried Soya milk than I really knew what to do with. As far as possible, they were camping out using ex-army equipment on the basis of a “swords into ploughshares” philosophy. Duncan beamed as he said( echoing Bach ?),

“ We walk through fields of sheep saying,” Hi sheeps, like...don’t worry...we won’t eat you “

“Yeah !” agreed a very laid back Elsa. ” We say it to the pigs as well “

Sadly, I spent another freezing cold night in my wholly inadequate sleeping bag.

An old biking chum of mine happened to own a caravan and camping store further along the route at Runton, so first chance I had, I phoned ahead and ordered a silk inner lining to fit the bag. I hoped to pick this up in a few days, but, in the meantime, my (pink)fleece jacket would double up as a pyjama top. Unfortunately, neither pair of underpants that I had brought along (one to wash--one to wear), was any longer in a fit state to be worn on my head.

In the morning I searched my soles, and felt that yet again, travelling on foot would probably spoil my walk. I decided that, although sticking to the North Norfolk Coastal path in spirit it would be prudent to catch the Coast Hopper bus to Wells-Next-the-Sea.

Having already mentioned the difficulties involved in erecting the tent and setting up camp, perhaps I should add that getting it all back into the pack also presents problems for the un-practised..especially when various extras such as carrots, potatoes, Tofu, sticks of seaside rock etc have to be found a home. The technique is not unlike lacing and fastening a Victorian corset.

Eventually I bade farewell to my friends and smallholding saviour and caught the bus outside the gate. Great to be back on the road again, I thought.

A lovely clear day afforded views of purple flowered marshes and deep blue sea. Once, I caught sight of an enormous chocolate brown bird hunting back and forth across a reed bed--a female marsh harrier according to my pocket guide.

I did however rather distrust my ornithological skills when I felt that I had positively identified a Griffon Vulture near Burnham Overy. The book suggested that Southern Spain and the Atlas mountains of Morocco were more likely haunts of the species.

The bus chattered on towards Wells. A lovely lady on her way home from hospital in Kings’ Lynn gave me a running commentary on the journey, in spite of the surgical stitches in her throat.

We passed the magnificent Holkham Hall along the way. All seemed well with the world ..until I glanced at my rucsack which I had left at the front of the bus, and to my horror noticed a wet patch developing on the side as my plastic water bottle , which had thus far belied it’s low price by remaining reasonably watertight, slowly emptied its contents into the bag. Fortunately, we reached Wells before too much damage was inflicted on my essential supplies, or my food and clothing.

I dismounted from the Coast Hopper( hobbler?) and once more became aware of those ever present feet. I knew that the campsite was at the end of the mile long sea wall which gives the lie to the “Next-the Sea” portion of the town’s name.

Fortunately for the weary walker a fantastic little steam train runs almost the length of the wall. Happy, laughing children were clambering aboard as parents inspected the gleaming brass work on the steam engine. I shoved my damp and bulging rucsack into a miniature carriage and casting aside any remaining pride, elbowed my way in with the kids. With a cheery toot of the steam whistle, we chugged off to the campsite.

At the other end, I fought my way clear and struggled back into the straps. I limped into the reception office to be greeted by the very lovely Helen.

“ Oh you poor thing!” she exclaimed “ However far have you walked today ?”

How close I came to perjuring my immortal soul, but said instead;

“ Only from that little train I’m afraid !” and thus began a friendship alive to this day !

I set up camp like an old hand -pity about the old feet. After two nights under canvas and one in a caravan under a carport, I felt I had paid my dues and earned the respect of hardened walkers and beautiful campsite receptionists. After showering, changing and selecting my most bendy pair of socks, I set off to walk back into town promising myself a big bag of chips on the famous harbour wall.This is one of the cheapest and most accessible of the world’s great wonders. Sit on the wall with a bag of French’s or Platten’s finest and watch the tide come in. I haven’t yet been to the Taj Mahal or the Pyramids but can’t imagine either can stimulate the senses more than a mouthful of haddock in that setting.

I sat wolfing down chips and watched the world go by. Kids were heaving out crabs, using a lump of bacon on a line. The dozy crabs fasten onto the bacon and promptly find themselves hauled out of the water and plopped into plastic buckets on the quay.

Sometimes they appear to spot their fate at the last minute and, letting go of the Danish, scuttle sideways across the harbour, to the accompaniment of squeals of excitement from the children, in a bid for freedom . All harmless fun as hooks are banned and all the grumpy crustaceans are tipped back in eventually.

As the water level rose, fishing boats navigated their way back to port via the tortuous channel which links the harbour with the open sea. Muscular fishermen lugged ashore their catches of crabs, lobsters, whelks and goodness knows what. Lorries were loaded and sped off into the night. Teenagers took to leaping into the water to be swept along on the rising tide before clambering back up a rusty ladder 100 metres away.

To my delight, I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Helen from the site. She introduced me to her friends as “One of my campers”

My diary records that I thought” …The odds seem heavily stacked against her having a thing about sore-footed father figures with sun-burnt lugs and delusions” and of course, I was right. We did however spend a great evening in the harbour-side Golden Fleece which appeared to be the fishermen’s local and a place where early holiday makers mixed with locals in a warm and noisy babble of music and conversation.

The fishermen put me in mind of the men in the pub in which I first took refuge. Maybe it’s the same with groups of working men in communities the world over. The banter and boisterousness, the relentless tormenting which masks a real affection and sense of belonging. These were men who also shared dangers. The very real physical perils of the sea as well as the ever present fear of their living drying up as prices fell and catches shrunk.

“I’ll see ya tomorrer Huddy” said one

“Not if I see you fust” was the reflex reply

I sat and sipped Merlot with my female friends. Helen explained to everyone that I was walking around Norfolk. This raised the obvious difficulty of my answering questions with a modicum of honesty without losing face or interrupting the flow of glasses of wine which well-wishers continued to provide. I parried those that I could, dissembled where necessary and fudged expertly, falling back on “ Well, it seems like hundreds of miles already”

And “ I don’t really keep track of the miles I’ve walked...more the ones still to go” It did however shame me into a decision that I would have to get down to doing some actual walking without delay.

The delay was shorter than expected. Closing time came and we spilled out of the pub in a splash of light and noise into chilly darkness. Hugs and kisses all round. Words of encouragement, and they were gone. Leaving me peering through the gloom in the general direction of my mile long journey back to the campsite.

The oystercatchers whistled in the dark. These are birds, not chirpy shellfish gatherers working a night shift. I paused frequently on the walk back, sometimes to breathe, but at others simply to admire the view of Wells harbour with its distinctive granary all illuminated against the darkness.

Most of the light came from amusement arcades ,chip shops and a bingo hall but this is the joy of Wells. A real place with real working inhabitants as well as a heady mix of visitors who have come to write poems, sail a “sharpie” eat winkles, attend a car boot sale or just wander and drink in the beauty of the place.

My tent was damp in the chill night air and seemed so tiny compared to the family canvas bungalows around it. I climbed in the way that one enters a canoe, gingerly one foot at a time, trying to avoid standing on my muesli. Facing a cold night, I had thoughtfully kept the daily paper in order to drape it tramp-fashion over me for additional insulation. I shed very few clothes that night and slept the better for it, waking to some horrid kid yelling,

“Hey dad… come and look at this funny little tent “

“ Come away son, there might be something in there”

I got up and dressed; that is to say-I put my boots on – and stumbled down the beach to meet the day. What a glorious half hour followed : all alone, I paddled peacefully in the cool sea- back and forth along the water’s edge. My feet sighing with pleasure. Listening to the piping calls of Curlews and Redshanks, the sucking and gurgling of the tide, I sloshed along like a child in seventh heaven. As I dried my feet, a plan came to me.

I decided to book into the campsite for a further three days and to use the Coast Hopper buses to take me out to points on the coastal path from which I could walk back. This would allow me to walk the path in sections without having to lug the full pack with me. I ambled into town and bought some more hi-tec plasters . After first aid and a change of socks, I bought a lurid plastic day-sack from a novelty shop, packed it with an eclectic lunch , plenty of water and caught the bus back to Burnham Overy Staithe, a tiny harbour about 6 miles to the west.

There are a number of Burnhams( 7 in all) including Burnham Thorpe, the birthplace of national hero Horatio, Lord Nelson . He may not have been very big in real life, but he certainly looms large in Norfolk. A board on the harbour’s edge at Burnham Overy Staithe proclaims that it was here that Horatio probably learned to sail. It is a fine place where a channel winds it’s way in from the sea and small boats bob at anchor or sit on the sandy mud depending on the tide. A chandlery in an old barn sells sailing requisites, specialist clothing, tasteful postcards and also does a great trade in mugs of tea and Mars bars. Much fortified, and plastered with sun block, I strode off along the sea wall heading east.

It was a scorching hot day and wearing my pinkish fleece jacket didn’t help. The jungle hat did however come into it’s own and my new plastic rucksack felt better than it probably looked. ( It later came to grief very inopportunely in the depths of a Swedish forest ) I was now walking much more freely and really began to enjoy the feeling of the hard packed clay of the bank beneath my boots. Wading birds abounded in the creeks beside my path and on the other side I had a wide view of the marshes and grazing meadows managed by English Nature for the Holkham Estate. Despite my loss of confidence over the alleged Griffon vulture, I was quite certain that I saw three Little Egrets. This was later confirmed by a bona fide “twitcher” encountered along the way. These absolutely snow white birds could easily earn a bit on the side doing TV adverts for washing powder.

The path leads to the soft sandy beach via a boarded section and, for Norfolk, a mighty hill. And, speaking of big bumps, it also soon crosses the local Naturist beach. Now, I don’t want everyone to know, but I have used such beaches. There are few sensations so pleasant as swimming naked in the sea. I would qualify this by adding, when the sea is reasonably warm and clean and the beach is not being patrolled by elderly men wearing nothing but Y fronts pulled up under their armpits. This seems to me a peculiarly British phenomenon. Why O why do they not at least buy a pair of shorts if they must stay covered around the nether regions? This from a man who sleeps with his knickers on his head I hear someone say.

I soon reached Holkham beach, famous as the setting used in the final scene of the movie, Shakespeare in Love. Sadly Gwyneth Paltrow was elsewhere that day . I settled in the pine woods which fringe the beach and prepared to eat my lunch. So did about a million flies. They clearly adored my High Power Jungle mix insect repellent. In fairness, it would probably have worked much better in Myanmar or somewhere similar. Having the kind of complexion which calls for factor 60 sun cream, and having liberally applied both cream and insect repellent, it should come as no surprise to learn that my sandwiches tasted more of greasy flies and industrial alcohol than the local crab that I had so pleasurably anticipated.

The sun continued to burn down and I felt like a wayward extra from Lawrence of Arabia as I huffed and puffed my way across the vast sands. Down by the shoreline, the receding tide leaves the fine sand sculpted into banks and mounds. Nature scallops and corrugates it leaving pools and channels to splash through. A magical place guaranteed to bring out the child in any walker. Indeed, it brings out the foal in the many horses which canter across its huge expanse . Every year, the Household Cavalry bring their mounts here to gallop through the surf.

I walked on through the pinewoods towards Wells. These were planted by the third Earl of Leicester in the 19^th century to stabilize the shifting sands and are now a wonderful place to walk in all seasons. Majestic, mature pine trees arching overhead, soft forest litter to walk on below. The glorious aroma of the pine forest .

In late summer there are blackberries galore and the shallow sea is at its warmest.

In winter this area is home to literally thousands of migrant geese, Pink Foot, Greylag and Brent… and the pines are the first welcome shelter for many tiny birds which migrate across the cold and rough North Sea in autumn and spring.

I marched on in the blistering heat….passing the bleached bones of holidaymakers…or maybe they were cuttlefish shells…whatever, there were plenty of them.

I soon reached the famous Wells Beach huts, subjects of so many postcards and paintings. Their jumbled heights and styles and colours ; the obvious signs of care and attention from occupants, all lend a charm which one would hardly expect from a row of garden sheds on sticks in an area of such natural beauty.

The “Wells” effect again maybe ? It’s ability to integrate the sublime and the everyday into a working whole.

Back at the campsite, I worked the “one-burner gourmet” trick again, as I conjured up a feast of Sosmix and vegetables. A refreshing mug of instant white tea revived me sufficiently to indulge in a combined shower and laundry session. An esoteric process involving a sort of naked soft shoe shuffle, lots of bubbles and all kinds of slapping sounds guaranteed to arouse suspicions of kinky goings on in the shower block. I rigged up a sort of washing line and left my smalls to dry overnight. Unlikely as it seems, they did !

Next morning, I set out to cover another section of the walk. This time, rather than take the bus, I decided to head east to Morston Quay and catch the bus back. I stocked up with essentials such as chocolate and crisps and headed out through the old whelk sheds of the East Quay to the coastal path. This area is now a hive of activity with a small seasonal art gallery and various unfathomable marine processes being employed cord wangling and the like probably.

Out on the path along the sea wall, I made good progress until I reached a swampy looking bay . On the map, the path crossed this by means of a bridge over the central creek. After half walking, half wading into the swamp, I was less than thrilled to find that the bridge had been ravaged by fire and I had to backtrack through the gloop. I walked on and eventually stopped to rest by the side of a field which ran down to the marshes.

I sat for a while and read from my Jungle Adventures of World War 2 book.

Suddenly I became aware of a presence and, looking up, saw a strange figure crouched beside me. He could well have passed for a jungle fighter himself. Clad from head to toe in camouflage gear and wearing a floppy hat not unlike my own, he glanced furtively from side to side as if expecting an enemy patrol to stumble upon us at any time.

“You camping?” he asked

“Yes, at the beach site in Wells “

“ God you must be bloody mad ! What.. when there’s all this free camping out here in the wild? You won’t find me on no campsite. I’ve got a Gore-Tex Bivvi bag and just roll into the bracken where nobody can see me”

Now over the years, I have come to love wild camping but find it a much safer and easier pursuit in the lakes and mountains than in rural Norfolk. Fresh water is easier to find for one thing and the chances of being combine harvested are substantially less on Snowdon .

This is a fabulous section of the walk. It hugs the edge of wild marshes intersected by creeks and channels. Surprises lurk around each bend and over each rise. A little harbour for sailing boats or a secret beach. A lake for wildfowl recreated some time back from land which had been farmed for over two hundred years. It now teems with birds.

Seductive paths which meander out over the saltmarsh ..leading no doubt to more derelict bridges to mock the unwary. This coast was once home to flocks of grazing sheep and many more working boats but now offers solitude under huge eastern skies. I walked on and came to the village of Stiffkey.

I had heard that this is pronounced “Stewkey” by the natives and later, proud of my research , I was chatting away to a charming and venerable chap I encountered raking for cockles out on the mudflats.

“Are you a Stewkey man ? I asked innocently

“What?” his bushy eyebrows bristled ” These are Stewkey blues” he said thrusting his harvest of shellfish at me” I’m not a bloody cockle ..”

I understand that the local pronunciation is used somewhat sparingly; a phenomenon which I came across later when asking the name of a village over the channel.

“That’s Clay” said my informant

“Oh, isn’t it pronounced Cly” says I

“Not by me it’s not...and I ought to know, I was born there “ he snorted.

In fact, I never heard anyone else at all call it “Clay” Maybe it’s an old family thing shared by “Proper” locals.

Stiffkey has several other claims to fame. Henry Williamson of “Tarka the Otter” fame farmed locally and wrote a book about this period in his life. “The Story of a Norfolk Farm ” is still well worth a read, providing an excellent insight into Britain between the wars and the agricultural and social upheavals of the time. Williamson himself had complex , and to many, unacceptable political views.

He was influenced enormously by his service in the Great War. He saw and felt the horrors of modern warfare and was himself seriously wounded. He was particularly struck by the gulf between the reality of the trenches and the propaganda being produced back home. He was never again to trust the “establishment” and was drawn towards National Socialism and a creed embracing purity, strength, health and the great outdoors. His later holocaust denials caused his works to disappear from view and left his reputation severely tarnished.

Another complex character associated with Stiffkey is the legendary Reverend Harold Davidson , local rector in the nineteen twenties and early thirties. Undoubtedly believing that one can have too much of a good thing, this worthy man felt drawn to leave the pure sea air and vast salt marshes of North Norfolk and travel regularly to the fleshpots of London. He believed his calling was to bring salvation to the lost and fallen ladies of the night.

His parishioners became somewhat suspicious of his motives…possibly brought on by his gaunt and exhausted appearance after these missions of mercy…and investigated further. Apparently his downfall began when he arrived late for a remembrance service in the parish thus infuriating the Bishop who put a private detective on his trail.

His subsequent trial in 1932 brought him great celebrity but also caused him to be de-frocked for “unwholesome behaviour”. He tried to raise money to appeal against the decision and in a story stranger than fiction, became a kind of fairground attraction preaching Daniel-like from a lion’s cage. Sadly, unlike Daniel, he one day stepped on the lion’s tail . The irate animal, possibly already inflamed by Harold’s daily sermons….promptly mauled him to death.

There have been moves in recent years to reopen the case and indeed, many scholars now claim that Harold was much misunderstood and may well have been completely innocent . The “Prostitutes Padre” was sentenced on the basis of some very dubious evidence and it is said that the one girl who spoke against him had been bribed with money and booze ….and later recanted. We may not have heard the last of Harold Davidson.