PART TWO

And so it came to pass that three trips to the Podiatrist, a warm sleeping bag and several meals which did not include Sosmix later- I found myself back in Cromer ready to tackle the Weavers’ Way, a (XXX) long distance footpath which joins the North Norfolk Coastal path to the Angles way In Great Yarmouth .This time wearing proper breathable waterproofs and equipped to cope with all that the English summer could throw at me.

Perversely, it chose not to throw anything, but merely to drape me in a thick blanket of what the locals called sea mist, but which could have graced a Jack the Ripper movie set…..although had it been a smidgeon thicker, Jack would have had difficulty slashing a barn door from the inside.

After a break, it took a while to get back into the rhythm of walking with a pack. I tried chanting …especially that one about “My Mate Marmite” that I’d heard the Royal Marine Commandos sing in the advert… but settled for a feeble version of “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary” as I sauntered through hedgerows dripping from the fog.

There isn’t much to share with you about the first few miles except that it looked somewhat grey and felt somewhat damp. The main excitement came when a couple of enormous cows loomed out of the swirling mists and after emitting foghorn like bellows…thundered off with that peculiar bovine gait which seems to involve more than four legs moving at once.

The mist began to thin as I arrived at the lovely Felbrigg Hall. A National Trust property set in park land through which the Weavers’ Way wanders. I took in the tea rooms and second hand bookshop, drawing back just in time from purchasing a particularly handsome edition of “Don Quixote” as I contemplated having to lug it with me half way across Norfolk.

The path meanders on alongside rivers , through water meadows full of buttercups and the truly evocative smell of cow pats. You can easily lose all sense of place and whilst hacking a path through a waterside wilderness easily imagine yourself to be miles from civilization then suddenly emerge through a kiddies play area into a village main street.

Eventually woodland paths lead to the next National Trust gem along the route….Blickling Hall.

This is a truly magnificent property. Indeed the view of the house from the road is almost too good to be true. If I were in charge, I’d plant a big Leylandii hedge to block it off so I could make people pay to look at it.

I decided to linger here a while and lunched at the estate pub…the Buckingham Arms. Staff here are obviously well used to walkers as despite my mud encrusted boots, passage blocking rucsack and general sweatiness, I received nothing but courtesy…well apart from a fairly substantial bill that is.

Blickling itself was built……..( XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX)

And is home to the celebrated ghost of Ann Boleyn..who (XXXX)

From here the very well maintained and signposted route leads over the fields to Aylsham. Norfolk has been called England’s “Sugar Bowl” and the path ahead lead through serried ranks of sugar beet as far as the eye could see.

I believe it was the great Aneurin Bevan who spoke of a land built on coal and surrounded by fish never needing to starve. Well, a lot less of both now….but I concluded that if we would settle for pigeon and rabbit pie and lashings of sugar, the same could hold true today. Everywhere I walked rabbits shot from beneath my feet and pigeons exploded with wings clapping overhead.

The day had by now turned hot and I eventually trickled into Aylsham, grabbed a cool drink and sprawled beneath the shade of a mighty Yew tree in the churchyard. As before, removing the pack brought on a strange sensation akin to moon walking…..or a kind of poor person’s Snowman flying through the air.

I wandered around the graveyard for a bit before spotting the resting place of the great landscape architect Humphry Repton whose handiwork I had already admired at Sheringham. It was great to see his grave planted with blooming red roses…doubtless nourished by his very own bonemeal ! It reminded me of the old advice to bury a dead horse when trying to establish a grape vine( or was it a fig tree?)

Aylsham itself is a very pretty little Georgian market town with a wealth of unspoilt buildings in the market square and beyond. (XXXGGGGKKKKK)

I planned to camp in a village not far away. Unable to find a proper tent camping site in the guide book, I had previously contacted a local farmer who allowed a few caravans onto his land in season. He was happy for me to pitch there but warned me that he lacked any kind of facility other than a tap.

I stocked up with expedition rations at the local Spar shop…chocolate, tinned pineapple and a half bottle of red medicine( Cotes de Rhone actually ) before heading out of town.

The Weavers’ Way now followed the track of the former (MGN ???) railway line.( BLBLBL) and before long dived into a cutting overhung with hawthorn trees. I soon reached an intersection with a country lane and clambered up to reach the farm caravan site above.

Mrs Cook greeted me warmly and invited me to set up camp around the back. She apologized again for the lack of facilities and suggested that I “do my business” behind some straw bales she said were in the adjacent field. I had only one caravan for company and a large lady in floral print shorts glared at me as I approached. “There’s no footpath through here you know!” she snarled . I explained, but had the feeling she felt that her VVVXXXXXXXX>???

I camped beside some ornamental shrubs which were to prove a useful modesty barrier in the night. However, feeling an urgent need I looked in vain for the promised straw bales but they had clearly been whisked away without her noticing. I waded off cross legged through a cornfield and several bramble hedges in search of somewhere to drop my drawers. Looking back to check that I was safely out of sight, I was

amazed to see Mrs Big-Pants watching my every move. I blundered on through nettles and thistles, everything clenched, frequently glancing behind me to see the daft woman rising up on tip toes to try to keep me in sight. Eventually I was able to drop down on my haunches in a wild patch at the corner of the field. O the joys of camping. By the time I fought my way back, I felt that I needed to go again.

Later, I sat and cooked up a tasty mixture of Spam and Smash instant potato. The Spam stuck to the frying pan…well, it would wouldn’t it?

As I did battle with a mean spatula, I heard Big-Pants yelling orders and turned to see her jerk and drag a reluctant German shepherd (dog that is) from her caravan. It was obviously going for a walk… or a drag… whether it liked it or not. She grabbed a large plastic jerry can and hauled the hound over to the water tap nearby. As they passed me, the inquisitive dog started to bark. The loving owner stopped this in its tracks by whapping the poor thing over the head with the jerry can. German Shepherds have an entirely undeserved reputation for ferocity…..but I thought…O just this once..go on..have her leg off.

Hygiene not being my strong suit, I ignored the corner of some distant field and settled for the shrubbery after dark, then settled down for the warmest cosiest night ever under canvas. The scrummy new silk sleeping bag liner was worth the wait. I had also reluctantly decided to leave my Woolworth’s pillows at home and had bought instead a compact camping pillow which did an excellent job. It poured down towards dawn and I snuggled down and listened to the rain lashing against the canvas only inches from my head. This is a wonderful experience…until you remember that the tent has to be taken down and folded into the rucsack in a few hours time.

I lay listening to the rain and slipping blissfully in and out of consciousness until I could no longer withstand the urgent promptings of my bladder. Mercifully, the rain stopped and I was able to scramble off to the distant…although by now somewhat damp, hedgerow...which I left even damper. Yet another reminder of the joys of camping. Back at the tent, I was greeted by Mr Cook the site owner. I offered to pay for my stay but this was waved away with the request that I drop something into a charity box on my travels….bless him.

After a tasty breakfast of Kit Kat and dried apricots, I packed away the wet tent. Sadly, Big Pants had obviously not been mauled to death in the night. Apparently en route to the water tap, she paused and stared as I struggled to jam the wet and swollen tent into my rucksack. I smiled and ventured a cheery good morning. She managed a grunt and a shrug before stomping off. No German shepherd this time maybe she’d eaten it.wwwwwwwwwords(14184)

The Weavers’ way appears to have been so named as it weaves its way all over the place. In fact, this section continues to follow the defunct railway line towards North Walsham. Following this lush green tunnel, I was once again aware of how you can be tramping along on a deserted track feeling as though you are miles from anywhere, yet pass really close to human habitation without realising it.

You plod on, playing out some daft fantasy about being lost in the bush…well…idiots like me do…only to happen upon a pile of lawn clippings, hedge trimmings and an abandoned plastic wheelbarrow flung through the hedge from a neighbouring garden. The trick is to just imagine it’s all a mirage and just stick with the fantasy. Eyes watching you from the undergrowth could well be native tribes-people resenting your intrusion. Anytime you could be shot in the neck by a poison dart…although in North Walsham that’s a distinct possibility!

The track curved ahead through cuttings and over bridges, over rivers and streams and eventually through the marvellous Felmingham Cutting. This is a steep sided cutting now designated a butterfly reserve. There are information boards and viewing platforms to view the lovely butterflies all around. I slipped off the pack and settled down to watch. Far better to let the butterflies come to you rather than chase them. The slightest shadow and they are off.

After a fascinating Lepidoptera packed lunch , I toddled off towards nearby North Walsham. Trying to learn from the battered foot syndrome of the first leg of the journey, I had planned shorter stages at the start of the walk to let my feet reacclimatise after the break. Good thing too as the sun now began to blaze down and the fantasy scenario changed to the one where I get to cross the Great Australian Desert with Flanders and Swann….or was it Flinders and Swann?

Sweaty and ponging, I emerged from the backwoods into downtown Walsham. I soon found the kind of café which one instinctively knows should be pronounced “caff”. A decent unpretentious establishment where a sweat-soaked moron who flails around trying to undo his back pack without demolishing too many tables might go almost unnoticed.

A slab of lardy cake and a mug of milky coffee later and I was ready to seek out the campsite I knew to lurk beyond the town boundaries.

The town has a wonderful motorcycle museum and a church tower which looks as though some cosmic backpacker had done to it what I had almost done to Mildred’s Café. I walked out through a housing estate and across poppy filled cornfields eventually joining a narrow country lane with raised banks ablaze with wild flowers. Just as the legs were writing a distress message , I came upon my goal for the day, Two Mills campsite.

What a relief. A brilliant, clean, well run site with really nice welcoming owners. I was shown to a fresh piece of grass on which to erect the tent. I say “fresh” as so often campsites offer a succession of rectangles in various shades of yellow where tents have stood for weeks… the area where the tent entrance had been ..churned to mud.

By now, I had become something of an expert on choice of pitch. I tested the wind direction by dropping a handful of leaves, felt for hollows and calculated the direction in which the sun would rise. Looked for shelter from the prevailing wind and carefully checked the slope of the land. Sadly, as any camper will tell you, these things are always at odds with one another and usually you can have any three from five but never all of them. In fact often you might just as well toss a coin.

With the tent up and all in place, I set off to shower. Facilities were excellent with one notable exception. And in truth, that was a matter of taste. Some people like piped music. Some people like Frank Ifield the yodelling Aussie…….however the only thing he did for me was to make my constipation even worse. Possibly I would have been grateful had I needed anything drowning out but each trip to the loo thereafter became a contest between me and Cliff Richard as to who would go first. I rather fancied that when I DID produce…Cliff would burst into “Congratulations and celebrations..…”

14900

The site was otherwise excellent and I have nothing but praise for the owners who went to enormous lengths to try to find a campsite for me for the next stage. They ‘phoned ahead and asked around….but it appeared that the only one marked on the map had long since closed down. However, I had a trump card hidden somewhere. A friend of my sister lived not too far off the Weavers’ Way …up at Sea Palling , which, as the name rather implies, is on the coast. A quick phone call and I had permission to camp in her garden.

I rather reluctantly packed away the next morning and traipsed of through the romantic White Horse Common…where a big black dog snarled at me…over Meeting Place Hill and back onto the old railway line.

I walked on in glorious sunshine , listening to the birds , kicking stones and humming Frank’s “ I Remember yoo-hoo”

I had just sat down to rest and eat a wee snack of a Wagon Wheel and a Turkish Delight, when a strange figure approached. A man clad entirely in motorcycle leathers and carrying a helmet trudged towards me , hampered by his knee length leather boots. I knew for sure that we were a long way from a road and pondered what on earth he could be doing.

Turned out that he had a strong interest in World War 2 searchlights. Yes, that’s what I thought! He liked to seek out old sites and photograph them. Why not do something sensible like walk around Norfolk with a leaky backpack?

This is a very attractive section of the walk and runs close to the historic North Walsham and Dilham Canal. Amazingly ,this was the only official canal in the whole of Norfolk. Opened in 1826 and long since closed, I learned that it was constructed wider than canals elsewhere in Britain in order that it could accommodate broad Norfolk Wherries . However, the romance fades a little when one discovers that the main cargo was offal and skeletons from abattoirs to feed the bone meal mill at Antingham.

Nearby Honing Hall is yet another site where Humphry Repton worked his parkland magic. This is an area where it definitely pays to wander off of the path and take in some of the surrounding villages.

Speaking of which, I now had to leave the track at Stalham and head off for Sea Palling and the lovely Jill. The next few miles were a real nightmare as the lane offered few chances to escape from the traffic hurtling through. Leaping onto a grassy bank with a 20Kg Pack as juggernauts bore down on me became almost instinct…just as well or I might otherwise have become more extinct. I managed to avoid becoming strawberry jam, although my lurches into the weeds have probably stored up spinal damage for my dotage.

Sea Palling suffered badly in the great floods of 1953 and has always been under attack from the sea . Massive artificial reefs made up of huge granite blocks have been erected just offshore to stop the beach being completely washed away. Instead, there are now strange curved bays between the reefs. I found Jill’s house and set up my tent in the flower garden. After a lovely evening ,it seemed truly odd to say goodnight…go out of the back door and walk down the lawn to camp amongst the dahlias. I thought I had a better offer when my beautiful host said “ Don’t forget if you get too cold…..you can always come inside…..”

Adding, as I smirked…” and push the dog off the sofa...he won’t mind”

Next morning, I thanked my host for her hospitality and stocking up with provisions, set off for Sutton. Once again, the day got out really hot and I found that I had to constantly stop and lie in the shade to recuperate. This seemed no problem as I had all day to get to Potter Heigham ( Potter H’am as they say round that way) .I reached Sutton and managed a brief look at the tallest windmill in Britain. There is an interesting display there of Broads life. definitely somewhere to return to and explore at a later date.

The walk now wandered along country lanes through the village of Hickling where I was treated with great kindness and tolerance by the owners of the village stores. A real rarity……..village stores that is...not kind people.

In fact, Norfolk people are absolutely golden and really made the trip; frequently helping me to overcome the results of my own incompetence.

I sat on a bench sipping a can of the magic elixir…Lemonade Shandy .. before diving off the road into the jungle which cloaks the southern shores of Hickling Broad. This was a wild and wonderful section of the walk. I saw 4 huge exotic Swallowtail butterflies, three eagle-like Marsh Harriers and a Chinese Water Deer. Sadly something nasty bit my thigh as I rested on the grass…something I might have welcomed the night before.

The footpath hugs the waterside and the going underfoot is quite rough and bumpy. A very tiring terrain to trudge over. I spotted a thatched cottage of some kind on the bank of the river…miles from anywhere. As I drew nearer, I saw notices on either bank saying “Strictly NO Quanting “

I didn’t need any- so wasn’t too upset that they had run out of it.

By now nearing exhaustion, I stumbled on, cheered by the knowledge that I had only a mile to go to Potter Heigham .

It was not to be. This was to be my first…but by no means last… encounter with the dreaded “ Footpath Diverted” sign. Due to maintenance or dredging or the wrong kind of grass, I was coerced into walking a further three miles along a raised bank which had been well used by cows who had clearly suffered a digestive upset on a major scale. Plodding along , periodically scraping my boots sideways in the long grass, I eventually collapsed out onto the main road .

I knew there were several campsites in the area but having hallucinated about carving my socks off with a bowie knife and taking a hot shower, I asked a passer by for directions to the nearest site.

She looked me up and down….and obviously fearing that no decent site would countenance a stay by the dripping red faced wild man she saw before her…she said

“ You could try Mrs Gimlet at Hemlock Cottage…she might take you…….”( Names have been changed to protect the…..erm...author.

Twenty long minutes later, I found myself standing in front of an idyllic looking gingerbread cottage. Thatched roof, roses around the door, and an enormous black cat curled up by a besom broom in the porch. An ancient handwritten sign informed me that I had arrived at Gimlet Camping. A welter of similar fading signs added that dogs were not welcome; that anyone turning their caravan in the drive would be prosecuted; and that people dropping litter would be forced to leave.

There should be no ball games and anyone thinking otherwise could clear off home now. ( well…it didn’t exactly say that...but that was the gist of it)

Timorously I rapped the brass pixie door knocker and waited.

After what seemed an age, an eye appeared at a gap in the net curtain, a bolt slid back and before me stood an absolutely copybook fairy tale witch! Wild eyed with unkempt hair( Her that is…not me), wearing the obligatory black dress and warts, she looked me up and down …..

”What do you want?” She demanded.

“I’d like to camp” I croaked.

“That’ll be 9 pounds a night…in advance “

“Well…I’m too tired to look for somewhere cheaper “ I said (foolishly!)

“You won’t find anywhere cheaper!”

She snapped and right then I knew that one more word out of line and I’d be out on my ear.

“Only a joke! It’s really reasonable “ I crawled, proffering folding money.

“Hmm….very well. Pitch your tent down the end by the caravan. I’ll look at it later”

This last remark sounded awfully like “ I’ll look at it later- and God help you if it isn’t pitched tidily”

The caravan turned out to be an ancient model long abandoned and now covered in green algae and bird droppings. The tyres were flat and gradually disappearing into the soft earth and lush grass. I pitched the tent, taking extra care to peg it out so as to leave no ugly folds which might incur the wrath of Esmeralda. I had just about finished loading everything inside when she sort of materialised at my side.

“ Hmm, you could have put it a bit nearer the hedge… but it’ll do”

I felt like saluting and snapping “Yes Ma’am!” but muttered a humble “ Are you sure? I could easily move it ?” although right then I was having difficulty moving my left leg in sync with my right one…let alone moving the wretched tent . But no, apparently it would do.

“Come and see me at the house before you do any washing “ she added as she sped away on her broomstick. Sorry , that last bit didn’t really happen but I was expecting it so much that I may have hallucinated it.

Having just about passed muster, I headed off into town to explore.

Many of the towns on the Broads have a kind of inland seaside feel to them. Although Wroxham rather sets the standard with its amusement arcades and chip shops; interesting souvenirs and rude postcards , Potter Heigham also has this air of holiday fun and abandon. Both places boast a large department store which draws the crowds from afar.

Each has a busy harbour offering moorings for holiday craft, boat hire and organised trips on the water. They both have a posse of homicidal attack-ducks too. These Mallards–with-malice haunt the water’s edge and mug unsuspecting holidaymakers for a handful of chips. Little boys who run around the house naked used to be told” Put it away, the ducks will get you” and, believe me, these ducks are the ones they had in mind.

Feeling that another meal based on Sosmix could be too much of a good thing, I wandered into a local pub which served food. You can tell the real gourmet places as they have a menu outside written on a blackboard in coloured chalk. Obviously inflation makes it difficult to quote prices, but a good rule of thumb is that a decent meal ought not to cost more than a packet of fags. I scanned the menu, trying to decide what to have with my chips.

As this was to be a rare treat, I settled on the vegetarian sausage surprise and sat back to take in the atmosphere of this ancient hostelry. I couldn’t put my finger on it for a while, but it suddenly came to me that the pub had just about the fattest clientele I had ever seen. Great big blokes in dungarees and ample bottomed ladies overhanging barstools. This boded well for the food….probably fried in good old traditional lard.

A small boy stood on tip toe looking through the glass at a large fish;

“Do it move Dad?” he asked as he banged on the tank

The legend “ 23lbs pike caught in 1907 by Colonel Boggis” suggested otherwise.

As I lingered over my meal and a few essential glasses of house red; feeling all warm and relaxed , I began to realise just how tiring the long diversion on today’s walk had been.

My legs put up solid resistance when I urged them to carry me back to the site. By the time I reached the tent I felt utterly exhausted. I decided there and then to approach Mrs Gimlet first thing and ask if I could extend my stay by another day.

Staggering back onto the site, I was astonished to see that a massive van had parked in such a way as to totally overshadow my tent. As I drew closer, I spotted the legend- “Women’s Royal Voluntary Service” on the side of the van. Just beyond I spotted a well pitched bell tent.

I imagined this to be full of women who might volunteer royal services in various ways. This was enough in my book for them to be forgiven for the incursion onto my territory. I looked forward to nocturnal girlie giggles in the style of “Carry On Camping “ and, with luck, some early morning callisthenics with Barbara Windsor look-alikes losing their foundation garments.

However, the night brought less pleasant experiences. Using my head-torch ..a curious piece of equipment which pointed everywhere but where the beam was needed…I lay in my sleeping bag and read a guide book to the area. Now I may have imagined this, but I am sure that I read that the area on which the campsite was laid out had once been a Saxon burial ground.

The elastic band which held the torch on my head eventually cut off the blood supply to my brain so I reluctantly put down the guide and snuggled down to sleep. Initially I slept well. With the tent sandwiched between the WRVS van and the decrepit caravan it was sheltered from the wind which had begun to get up.

I woke in the small hours aware of strange noises outside. I could hear

A sort of scratching, scraping noise accompanied by what sounded like sighing. The tent was now billowing and slapping in the wind. A barn owl screeched nearby. I shivered…cold…but also now feeling afraid.

Sounds are magnified at night. I lay there listening to the insistent scraping and scratching . Almost certainly the shades of long dead Saxons trying to claw their way out of the cold earth where they had so long lain. Well, that’s what it sounded like. By far the best way to deal with various ghoulies, bogey men and spooks is the time honoured trick of snuggling down under the covers .This almost always works, although don’t ask about the times when it hasn’t.

I spent a troubled night; due partly to the returning spooky Saxons and partly to the returning onion rings from my pub meal. The strange noises continued and the wind got up again…both within and without, but eventually I fell asleep- waking some hours later as the sun peeped through the privet hedge. Again I heard the scratching but this time accompanied by muffled curses. So much braver by the pink light of dawn, I peered outside expecting Beowulf to be rising from the grave. It was much worse…much more scary.

The scratching had been the sound of chickens penned in the dilapidated old caravan and now I was staring directly at Esmeralda Gimlet’s enormous muscular bottom as she knelt with her head through the pop hole gathering eggs. God help me if she caught me staring at her drawers. I rapidly zipped myself back in and snuggled down in my sleeping bag again.

I awoke some time later to the sound of the WRVS practising for a steel band concert. Or maybe just cooking breakfast in various metal pans. I dressed and crawled out looking for Barbara Windsor. No such luck. What I saw was a jolly family group who may well have pinched the works van for the weekend . Lovely people who chatted away to me little realising that I had spent half the night fighting off the undead on their behalf.

17558

I was beginning to hum a bit. Not in a musical way…more a “My God, what on earth have they been spreading on the fields Mildred?” sort of way. Much modern walking gear prides itself on being light, quick drying, breathable etc…but “smelly” is a word seldom mentioned in the brochures. Phrases like “Wicks away perspiration” rather cloak the fact that the sweat has to go somewhere. Indeed it does wick to the surface of the garment and the wetness evaporates ( or “Flashes” in the techno speak beloved of hikers everywhere) only the pong remains.

I planned to stay at the camp a further day- so after breakfast, gathered together a pile of laundry and set out to find Mrs Gimlet. I found her by the cottage ramming a stick down the drains. She eyed my bundle. “ Is that your washing ?” she asked. Her glare implied it looked, and maybe smelled, more like my garbage. After brief negotiations...and the passage of a few silver coins… she pointed out the laundry room with its slot meter controlled old geyser.

“How many items do you have to wash?” she demanded to know

“Eight “ I replied after the kind of survey usually reserved for the nine items or less checkout at Tesco.

She handed me 9 clothes pegs.

“Mind you bring ‘em back” she said “ Or I’ll have to charge ‘em to you”

Laundry duly done and hung out to dry, I set out for the village. I rather fancied a boat trip on the Broads. I trundled into the tourist office and discovered that a large boat…with a bar let it be said….was sailing that very afternoon via Hickling Broad to the wind pump at Horsey Mere. I decided to book and reached for my wallet. I had already had to dig deep to pay Mrs Gimlet and now the boat trip left me very short of cash. I asked where I might find a cash point.

“Erm…Stalham “ came the reply

“Stalham ?” I gulped “ But that’s miles away!”

Indeed it was…and is. Nothing else for it…no hole in the wall…no cash back no way. If I wanted cash, it had to be Stalham.

And so it was that I came to be riding in Tim’s taxi. Spending ten pounds on the fare to withdraw forty ! He knew of Esmeralda…….

“Funny old gal “ he said” Often chucks people off the site if she don’t like the look of them !”

Back in Potter Heigham, pockets stuffed with gold, I blew part of my fortune on a nourishing bag of chips and settled down by the river to watch boats sailing under the bridge. This proved excellent sport as the opening was only marginally bigger than most boats. This combined with tides and swirling currents…not to mention flocks of attack-ducks…led the authorities to insist that no-one attempt to sail under the bridge without the services of a skilled river pilot. These old sea-dogs( River-dogs?) made it look really easy….lining up the boat and, as the holidaymaking crew went white, gulped and ducked low...shot through the opening with just inches to spare.

Eventually the time came to board the boat for my trip into the unknown. Would I end up having to leap overboard and haul the boat to safety-burning off leeches with a glowing fag-end? Would the Captain collapse over the wheel forcing me to takeover and pilot us through treacherous waters? Would someone(else) on board go mad and try to scuttle the boat? A heady mixture of The African Queen, Hemingway, Swallows and Amazons and Hammond Innes swam around in my brain as we weighed anchor and slipped into the channel-bound for Horsey.

Uneventful would be one way of describing the trip…but that would be a little unfair. Judged by the standards of normal folks rather than an overgrown Just William…it was fine. We saw herons and a marsh harrier, almost sunk a canoe, drank a few glasses of red wine ( a naval tradition) and got to climb the steps of Horsey Mill for a panoramic view of the surrounding countryside.

To my shame, I have often referred to this part of Norfolk as the “Empty Quarter” The great unexplored wilderness between Mundesley and Great Yarmouth .

Xxxx

Xxxx

Xxxxx

Xxxxx

I enjoyed the cruise and my legs certainly appreciated the rest from humping half a ton ( 500Kg) of camping equipment along river banks.

I returned to the campsite to find that the WRVS had fled only to be replaced by a couple of the undead in a huge caravan parked about as close to my tiny tent as was possible. I tried to be friendly…tried to chat…but couldn’t decide whether they were mute, Latvian or had temporarily given their carer the slip. Eventually I gave up and got on with my chores. They found me most entertaining…watching me go about the business of cooking a Sosmix Special like a pair of noddy headed dogs. They sat grinning and gently wobbling their heads in wry amusement as I slopped the wet mix into shape, fried it and then skilfully scraped a lot of it off the pan and onto my plate.

After spending a quiet night in, I slept well…my dreams completely devoid of deceased Saxons and similar nocturnal nasties. I woke early and after breakfast, prepared to move on. The nodding dogs watched as I deflated the airbed, rolled up the tent, stuffed the sleeping bag into it’s cover and , with the bare minimum of squashing, kneeing, swearing and wrestling, packed everything away in the rucsack. Mr Noddy strolled over, grinning inanely” So, does it all fit in there then ?” he asked.

With everything safely stowed , I hoisted the pack and strode off on the next leg of the journey. I hoped to follow the path beside the river Thurne, down through Acle and out onto Halvergate marshes. My brief battered guide to the Weavers’ Way suggested stopping at the curiously named Camping Barn and gave a phone number to call.

I walked on under a hot sun with just the birds, butterflies and a packet of liquorice allsorts for company. The path veered away from the river at the picturesque village of Thurne with its much photographed windpump and less well recorded ice cream vending emporium…It then climbed through the churchyard. I followed, chomping on a Cornetto, heaving my weary body up a steep incline

( in Norfolk, this is any piece of ground on which water will refuse to stay still) to be rewarded by stunning views of the river below.

I walked through yet more sugar beet fields before dropping back down to the riverside opposite Upton marshes. I sat by an old ruined mill and ate my lunch, waving my bare feet at passing boats. Strange business this waving malarkey. There is some inexplicable compulsion on the part of day trippers afloat that causes them to wave cheerily and leer gormlessly at anyone and anything that moves. They wave at passengers on passing craft, at folks on the riverbank, at herds of cows and at RAF pilots flying 20,000 feet overhead. Anyway, I waved back equally gormlessly…if not more so.

I loved these picnics. A chance to rest and relax…savour being out in the open air. Listening to the birds and bees. Dining regally on whatever had survived being jammed into the rucsack…and subsequently knelt on. Some foods endure this better than others. Sliced white bread in particular tends to revert to its component parts when compressed. Few things are less appetising than a squashed Spam sandwich.

This took me back to my Army days when on cookhouse fatigue duties, four lads would process alongside a very long table. The first would slap down slices of bread as if dealing from a pack of cards, the second would slop a paste of bully beef and oil onto each slice of bread. Number three would deal a second slice of bread on top…and the fourth and most important member of the team would wallop the sandwich to cement it together. This final component of the sandwich making drill was known as “stunning”.

Haversack rations usually included two rounds of these terrifying examples of the sandwich makers art- plus a packet of crisps an apple and sometimes a chocolate bar( small, hard, tasteless and “wishing I had a proper one” for the use of ) We referred to the sandwiches as “baddies” and the other stuff as “goodies”.

The baddies were frequently flung from the back of the truck. Dartmoor and Salisbury Plain are built on these discarded building blocks. In fact, there may well be an alternative theory concerning the origins of Stonehenge in there somewhere. Reading that, you can probably understand how I look so well on a diet of burnt Sosmix fritters.

My sybaritic lunchtime pleasures would usually endure until shortly after the ants and flies found me. One would wave or flick away the first members of the vanguard before reaching the point where, as the main legions arrived, frantic waving and flicking would attract boat loads of trippers enthusiastically signalling back.

Back on the trail, I walked beyond the mouth of Upton Dyke, past Clippesby Mill and on to Acle Bridge with its welcome stores and even more welcome public conveniences. Note that I have, thus far, largely avoided the earthy but obviously entirely natural and necessary matter of bodily functions( well…ignoring the sawn off Coca Cola bottle that is…Oh and the missing straw bales saga ) When there is a toilet, then one uses it…however , we adventurers have to be adept at doing it in the woods….except that alongside Broadland waterways…there are no woods( oh and the herbaceous border incident) Anyway, the toilets were open, clean, well supplied and greatly assisted me in the business of walking straight without ones knees being clenched.( I said “Knees” to avoid appearing vulgar)

I bought fresh supplies of chocolate and ice cream but left my main grocery shopping until arriving in Acle itself. I realised that my gas canister was running low and tried valiantly to find a stockist. Everyone I asked seemed to suggest somewhere different, and trekking across the place when hot and heavily laden was no fun. The kindly proprietor of Wonderful Wilkersons hardware stores turned practically the whole place upside down believing that the elusive gas lurked somewhere within.