Sadly it didn’t. I resolved to do without hot food that night. In view of the standard of cuisine so far, this was hardly a great sacrifice….more a blessing in disguise. I bought a collection of various nutritious cold foods from the Co-op…peanuts..swiss roll..Hob-Nobs etc. I found a telephone box and called the owner of the camping barn to ask permission to camp . He readily gave it, but warned me that there were already some people staying there.

The idea of having company was rather attractive after all the time I had spent in the bush, so I hoisted my pack and lugged my Co-op carrier bags out of town. After a wet spring, growth was lush along the path which wound its way through a recently planted wood . I made my way through this veritable jungle towards the A47 trunk road. Crossing this was a nightmare. Cars ,Lorries and kamikaze caravans barred my path and as I gathered myself ready to dash across a group of snarling racing motorcyclists in lurid leathers rocketed from the nearby roundabout. It seemed forever before I was able to cross…although it probably wasn’t.

At last I was over and tripped off in the direction of the barn. Feeling good at escaping the horribly busy road I sang to myself. Have you ever noticed that the more you want to stop singing a particular tune….the more often you find it on your lips? Frank Ifield and his yodelling were proving difficult to suppress. I tried a variety of tunes from “The Happy Wanderer” to the Marines yomping chant( My Mate Marmite) but Frank refused to be beaten. In the end I all but glued my jaws together and clomped along in silence……..until I heard the thump of amplified music…

As the camping barn hove into view, it was clear that my fellow campers were young and music loving. A crowd of laughing joking boisterous young folks spilled over from the barn. Clusters of tents were pitched in the meadow outside. I felt like a grizzled old granddad appearing out of the mists. Like a fur trapper descending from the Rockies after spending six months unwashed and generally untended.

Well, I certainly grabbed their attention. I explained the situation and said that I didn’t want to disturb them and would camp away over the other side of the field. They were having none of it and quickly put me at ease. The barn turned out to have a fully functioning kitchen….so much for my lack of gas… and bathrooms with all mod cons.

We chatted for a while and it turned out that the group wanted to go out on the town…or as we used to say in historical times…paint the town red. I suggested they would need a very small pot of paint for Acle and suggested they head for Great Yarmouth which could certainly do with as fresh coat or two of any colour at all really.

I must have an honest face as they left me the keys to the barn. I made camp in a lovely spot a good distance from the other tents. Sheltered by trees and set amongst wild flowers( well…on top of some of them) it felt truly wild . The four gas rings, fridge and power shower were a bonus. The tent that I was using had an entrance on each side and I had long wanted to be able to camp in such a way that with the flaps rolled up, I could watch the sunset one side and waken to the sunrise on the other. I got my sunset alright, but awoke to the sound of rain drumming on the tent and splashing through the doorway onto my sewn in groundsheet. I gave up on sunrise , mopped up as much water as I could without getting out of my sleeping bag , zipped up the tent and went back to sleep.

Eventually the usual calls of nature had me up and wading through the wet grass . I knew the young folks had been really late and didn’t want to go clattering into the barn…so did things al fresco. I breakfasted handsomely on muesli and cold water. The sun was now peeping through and my tent started to dry off quite rapidly. As this was the final day on the Weavers’ Way I wanted to make a fairly early start so loaded up my still somewhat damp equipment and crept away.

The long grass was still wet and despite wearing proper waterproof boots, I soon had soaking wet feet. I think that my super-socks which were designed to wick away moisture from my feet were now wicking rainwater straight down into my boots…rather in the manner in which one can water pot plants while on holiday by using a bowl of water and an old rag. Regardless of how it was happening…it WAS happening and after a few soggy miles I had to stop to change socks ,dry my feet and don my waterproof overtrousers . Thus encumbered - I rustled streamed and dripped off through the meadows.

Ahead of me lay the dark brooding expanse of Halvergate Marshes. On a grey cloudy day with not a soul in sight, I set out to cross a wilderness as forbidding as the famous Grimpen Mire of Hound of the Baskervilles fame. Mercifully, everything began to dry out and I was able to remove the overtrousers which had been progressively sending me loopy with their chafes and rustles and squeaks.

Halvergate Marshes are grazed by fierce looking cattle who need to be tough to live out there. None of your namby pamby Jersey cows here. These are great shaggy lumbering beasts with horns two metres across whose very breath can stunt a shrub at ten paces. As the unsuspecting traveller stumbles across the moors, they clamber to their feet like African buffalo which we all know from reading Tarzan comics are the most dangerous quarry of all .

Frankly the best technique is to just talk to them the way one would an axe-toting mass murderer. Just plough on while saying.. as firmly as one can when the spittle has mysteriously dried up… “ Now we don’t want any trouble do we? I respect your right to be here but I just need to walk past …it is after all a right of way” They just sort of look at you…but deep down you know it was only their highly developed sense of pity which has spared you a ghastly goring.

I remember when I took up beekeeping…they seemed to go mental whenever I opened up the hive, they stung through my protective clothing…they shot down my welly boots to sting my ankles...they got inside my veil.. whereas they were as gentle as lambs when my beekeeping mentor did exactly the same thing. He taught me to sing to them …particularly recommending “The Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo” It worked-but it took me years to twig that the singing was to calm ME down- not the bees…although one led in turn to the other.

My country know-how and raw courage took me past the cattle……they also took me past the correct turn off for the new Weavers’ Way. The path has been slightly modified over the years and now plunges south east to the famous Berney Arms pub which sits in splendid isolation beside the river….accessible only by boat ..on foot…or amazingly...by train. Sadly…I sloshed on across the swamp in a completely different direction . My excuse is that I was following a series of arrows and signs which said “Ramblers-This Way” …which I imagine had been stuck there to guide a party of walkers who had presumably been swallowed up by the mire…..or trampled by the bullocks.

Eventually I reached the raised bank along the side of Breydon water… a huge tidal estuary lined with mud and sand banks- home to thousands of birds…..and numerous rotting hulks of boats. As I walked along the top of the bank, swallows swooped low…whistling past me as if dive bombing me. I can only imagine that they were after the various insects disturbed by my rolling gait and thudding tread. I watched in amazement at their aerial prowess….feeling the rush of air as they swept by. They could of course have been in pursuit of the various flies and other assorted insects buzzing around me attracted by my many and various unhygienic practices.

I stopped for lunch by a stile…always a good spot as the lower step can be utilized as a seat. I was nearing the end of this section of the walk and had resolved to pop home for supplies…more re-equipping and possibly a bath. I made a note to investigate lightweight stools as a possible addition to my burden.

As I sat with my boots off trying to dry my socks and air my feet, a party of walkers approached. They said they had made much the same trip as I had but seen no other walkers at all along the way . In some respects this is great news as one would like to keep the solitude and wildness… on the other hand, it means that a lot of walkers are missing out on a very attractive and challenging walk . Certainly it is now difficult to walk the North Norfolk Coastal Path at any time of year without encountering many other walkers…although I guess there is plenty of saltmarsh to go around.

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I walked on towards Great Yarmouth. Breydon Water is a real haven for birds and I watched Little Egrets as I had way back on the north coast. This beautiful bird was hunted to extinction in this country during the 19^th century. Its pure white plumes were in great demand by milliners. I marvelled at Grebes diving underwater as I approached and watched for them to bob up much later…almost always nowhere near where I expected them to surface.

At length I too surfaced somewhat unexpectedly in Asda’s car park. After worming my way under the giant road bridge and negotiating a rusty chain link fence…I was able to complete the Weavers’ Way at the rather attractive display board near the railway station. So far…so good. Ahead of me lay the next challenge…The Angles Way from Yarmouth to Thetford….voted the best waterside walk in Britain by waterscape.com in 2003 apparently. This is a 77 mile footpath which meanders along the border between Norfolk and Suffolk…mostly following the River Waveney. But first….that bath was calling. I have to say….I’d never realised before how brown the water was where I live.

My assault on the Angles Way began once more back at Yarmouth railway station. I had survived a well deserved…but nevertheless somewhat brusque…bawling out by a railway official in Norwich for leaving my rucsack unattended while I went to the loo. If you can recall my becoming jammed in the lavatory doorway in Kings’ Lynn , then maybe I’ll gain a glimmer of sympathy…not however from the very properly vigilant member of staff.

That, I could deal with…I was chastened…I was genuinely sorry…it was the fellow passenger who muttered at me all the way to Yarmouth about how it was for the benefit of us all and I really should have known better and didn’t I read the newspapers about leaving luggage and explosions and their job was hard enough without people like me and so on ….as we crossed the Grimpen Mire… I lay back trying to ignore her… dreaming of great movies like Throw Momma from the Train….Murder on the Yarmouth Express… and that one where two blokes swap murders. I felt that she must have many people in her life who would gladly bump someone off for me in exchange for my expelling her from the carriage window as we passed the bullocks.

I strode purposefully away from the station and straight into a fantastic café… definitely pronounced caff.. nearby . It was about elevenses time( i.e. almost anywhere between breakfast and lunch) and a fried egg sandwich almost never goes amiss on a trip like this. Likewise a mug or two of tea. There was a wonderful notice on the wall which read “ Look…this ain’t MacDonald’s right? You’ll get it when we’re good and ready “

Fortified or in my case - fiftified by this energy packed repast, I made my way over the Haven Bridge and entered the Peoples’ Republic of Cobholm. This is an area almost cut off from Yarmouth by the river YARE and the ancient A12 trunk road. This area has developed almost independently and I imagine the inhabitants speak some arcane language like Coblish. One almost expects to be stopped at the border, conjuring up visions of the old movie Passport to Pimlico.

Apparently comedian Jim Davidson had had a long term love-hate relationship with the town having bought a pier complete with theatre to put on his summer show. However, it seems that Cobholm pulled up the plank long before this.

The path threaded its way through tangled brambles and old derelict buildings …not the most scenic part of beautiful Yarmouth. After crossing a large treeless recreation ground( see earlier for the need to do things in the woods) I reached the stunning Breydon Bridge. This is a so-called “bascule” bridge….a sort of latter day drawbridge which opens to let shipping through. It carries the Yarmouth by-pass over the Yare and dominates the view for miles .

The path follows Breydon water for several miles…giving wonderful views of the estuary and it’s wildlife. I stopped for lunch…or “scrownie” as we said in my youth…by an old pumping station. Now equipped with a very lightweight folding stool, I made camp and unpacked the rations. For a few fly-free moments it was bliss. Inevitably the word spread that here was a mug with sandwiches who could be robbed blind with impunity. Wise to all that, I whipped out my 100% Deet insect repellent….tested in the equatorial forests…and, to be fair, it seemed to keep the tsetse flies away although Breydon buzzers are made of sterner stuff. In desperation, I slapped on yet more repellent …succeeding only in tainting everything I ate and almost poisoning myself. I swear the flies were laughing…as yet more boat crews grinned and waved .

Soon, the rivers Yare and Waveney diverge . The Angles Way follows the latter and across the water, I could see the elusive Berney Arms which I had managed to miss as I wandered the Grimpen Mire earlier.

Toiling on under a hot sun, I reached what proved to be one of the highlights of the whole trip. An ancient Roman fort—Gariannonum or Burgh Castle. The walls of the fort are remarkable well preserved and enclose a considerable area where the xvxvxvxv legion was once stationed.

I walked the perimeter taking in the fabulous views out over the marshes. I came across a friendly couple who were revisiting for the first time in many years. They reminisced about childhood picnics here and laughed as they recalled rather less innocent pleasures which followed in later years. I set down the pack and settled myself down for a while…imagining my troops hurling projectiles down on attacking Saxons…or Jim Davidson.

I whiled away a lazy afternoon watching boats sail by and birds sweep across the marshes. At last I had to stumble to my feet and set off for tonight’s resting place. Before I go on…it has to be appreciated that I had camped in fields and lived on a diet of Sosmix and done things behind straw bales and lived really rough….so the incredibly expensive yet luxurious site I had chosen seemed richly deserved.

I had rather expected the response I received in Hunstanton…and still being technically at least, a single sex party, I walked onto the site with some trepidation. The welcome could not have been more different…smiling friendly staff relieved me of a week’s wages for a night’s stay but also pointed out the shop, swimming pool, bowling alley….entertainment block…erm…swings..and so on.

It was heavenly after spending weeks in the outback living on bush tucker. Took me right back to the site in North Norfolk with the appalling singing chef. I pitched my tiny tent amongst the magnificent canvas temples bedecking the leafy site and sat to watch the world go by.

New campers were arriving all the time. I watched in amazement as vast multi-roomed edifices arose. Interlocking kitchen units were assembled, armchairs unfolded ,televisions plugged in . Gas driven industrial barbecues roared into life, bicycles were unclipped from the backs of camper vans. Tempted to say something about all the comforts of home….except most homes would have been put to shame by the plethora of furniture and white goods being unloaded here.

Unfortunately, this was the sort of site where declining to join in the communal Frisbee flinging games attracts the soubriquet ” miserable old git.” ….at least that’s what it sounded like.( 22,000 xvxvxvx)

There’s no doubt that camping at this level provides a super holiday for young families. Kids love it( most of the time) and can even be conned into doing chores such as washing up that they wouldn’t dream of tackling at home. It is also the holiday of choice for the nation’s dog lovers. Hounds of all shapes, sizes and of course…voices...abounded. Well…bounded anyway. This was all a far cry from the small sites and rough meadows( and yes…caravans ) that I had been using most of the time, but it was great after a hard day’s walking to relax in the plush bar sipping a Merlot and reading my book without the head torch clamped around my skull.

Once more, in a triumph of hope over experience, I had aligned the tent to allow the first pink rays of the rising sun to kiss me awake . Kiss was nearly right. At about 5 am the heavens opened, drowning out even the baying dogs and once more I had to do some baling before zipping myself up safely. I determined to make the most of it and snuggled down to listen to the raindrops. May have mentioned before that this is great when you don’t have to contemplate packing it all away dripping wet in a few hours time.

Later, after a long snooze… punctuated only by the howls and yelps of the massed canine choir, I purloined a big scrunched up bundle of paper towels from the nearby loo and managed to mop the tent fairly dry and jam the whole enterprise back into my rucsack. The presence of a snack bar spared my long suffering stomach the usual muesli and powdered milk thus, burping gently and with a veggie burger sticking to my ribs, I headed off along the trail.

Mercifully the sun soon broke through as I tramped along a wide earth track between high hedges . Once more I took the opportunity to spread my damp equipment over a bush and relax in the sun as it all dried….and gathered an interesting selection of the local fauna to amuse and amaze me as it variously crawled crept and flew out of the folds of my sleeping bag in the small hours.

As the path swung left across a meadow of drying hay, I witnessed an interesting performance from a female marsh harrier. I saw her, as I thought, hunched over a kill of some sort, but as I drew closer she started to hop away slowly dragging what appeared to be a broken wing. I had read about birds luring potential predators away from their young by feigning injury, but never before witnessed it. I deliberately followed and was drawn about 100 metres away from what I took to be the nest site. As I walked on and obviously posed no danger, I looked back to see her glide effortlessly back to the starting point!

The guide to the Angles Way had mentioned the church at Fritton and rightly so. A typical Norfolk round towered Saxon tower constructed from flint….it xcxvxbxfx dgx

All day I had been wondering about the insistent BONG BONG BONG sounds in my head…..chief suspect was the Merlot from the night before…although the sound became louder as the morning drew on. As the path rounded Fritton Lake the drumming noise grew quite deafening. It was not unlike the soundtrack from an old John Wayne movie…one of those where some spotty, gangling youth utters the immortal words” Injuns paw!” just a dad cops an arrow through the Stetson. Turns out that the Lake was playing host to the so called Dragon Boats with drummers beating out the rhythm for the rowers. It certainly carried as I was to hear it for the next 6 miles or so.

Stopping to consult the map, I was left with the impression that the route must at some stage have been a few miles too short for someone’s liking. I could imagine a hastily convened council meeting at which the holder of the portfolio for footpaths and sundry wanderings…in a state of some animation, waved a copy of Ramblers’ Weekly aloft…” Honourable members…the new Cobblers’ Way in Northants is 10 miles longer than ours….we have to stick some extra mileage in immediately if we don’t want to become a laughing stock”

Thus, after a heated debate on lengthism….the route was extended . This would certainly explain why the path takes a whopping great swing to the north east. This would however be uncharitable as this proved to be a very interesting leg of the walk. It crossed farmland, lush meadows and thorny thickets ( sorny sickets?) before plunging through muddy bogs and reedy mires . Along the way I passed Ashby church standing in splendid isolation . Here… and in a remote spot further on, I came across sad memorials to the USAAF airmen who lost their lives during the second world war.

Still marching in time to the steady beat of the bass drums…I entered Somerleyton.

Morton peto blahx blahc( railway pioneer..businessman xvxvxvx)

After stocking up on chocolate and ice cream at the local store, I marched on…however even by my standards what follows beggars belief. ( 23000 xvxvxvx)

You may need four matchsticks for this next bit. Ok ? Arrange them in a diamond shape….Now imagine that they represent the next section of the footpath. Somerleyton lies at the top of the diamond. The path goes from the top heading south west to the boatyard….then turns south east towards the railway, before heading back north east to complete three sides of our diamond in an anti clockwise direction( OK so far?) The route then departs from the diamond and heads off to the south.. Now…imagine some nitwit reaching Somerleyton and heading down the wrong side of the diamond….worrying a little at first, but soon delighting at the sight of markers for the Angles Way. The problem of course is that said nitwit is now following the route in the reverse direction…he slogs on past the station…past the boatyard and arrives…somewhat hot and bothered back where he started.

I THOUGHT the drums were getting strangely louder again and when I realised what I had done I got so mad, I kicked a tree. A real Basil Fawlty moment.

I cursed whoever planned the route…wondered where on earth to go….so settled for the ice cream shop again, and the humiliation of asking directions from the shopkeeper about an hour after leaving the same establishment and striding off like some visiting Olympian.

I decided that the view would be little different seen from an anti clockwise perspective…so settled for taking the shortcut back to where the track headed south.

The next stretch follows the edge of Somerleyton and Blundeston marshes. Broad tussocky swamplands grazed by yet more half wild cattle with snuffly breath and dribbly chops. I paced myself now, which is another way of saying- I was now so tired after the dopey detour that I had to keep stopping. Fortunately, I had tucked away in my pack a pocket guide to British birds. I spent my lengthy stops trying to sort out my redshanks from my Lapwings and my pipits from…well...sparrows and various other little brown jobbies.

I trudged on across the wet meadow , a real joy with its abundance of wild flowers and butterflies. A long while since the beautiful butterfly reserve in Felmingham cutting and what lovely creatures they are. As with any new interest, as knowledge grows , the more enjoyable it becomes and the more you realise that there is to know. I had spotted the stunning Swallowtails back at Hickling Broad…now the various meadow species delighted me. When you are walking day after day after day….you begin to notice so much more. The varieties of wild flower…the birds…the bees ..the mosses…lichens ..fungi.. too much to really master even in a long lifetime…although some of the Feature writers in the local newspaper come close.

After the beauty of the marshes, the final section of this leg of the walk comes as a bit of a shock. The green heaven comes to an abrupt end in the back gardens of suburban Oulton Broad. After having to navigate my way across the mire using a large scale map and compass…it’s now Borrow Road into Romany Road on to The Maltings into Caldecote Road and so on. The brave urban guerrilla struggled on battling uneven pavements and vicious Chihuahuas. Barging past old ladies clutching Tesco bags…….only to be overtaken by them a few yards further on. Pounding the mean streets as they in turn pounded me. It had been a long day and I was happy at the thought that my intended camp site for the night was only a mile or so away.

I emerged from the tangle of residential streets and after risking death on the busy A146 , I stopped …that is to say, collapsed on the patch of grass by Mutford Bridge and admired the engineering which had gone into the construction of the adjacent lock . This links Oulton Broad with Loch Lothing, the long narrow stretch of water flowing into Lowestoft docks and out to sea. There is a yacht station close by and the whole broad is alive with boats of all descriptions. There are sail boat enthusiasts in craft of all shapes and sizes as well as power boat fanatics who race here .I especially liked the look of the big tourist boats with their shore-based touts loitering by boards with chalked adverts offering cruises on the broads. A mental note was made to return another day to taste life before the mast.

The “other day” came sooner than expected. But, more of that later. For now, I walked on through the attractive Nicholas Everitt Park which fringes the Broad. Looking for peace…looking for tranquillity...but most of all looking for the Gents. Sadly, as so often on this trip, I found them boarded up . This led to an impromptu expedition into the shrubbery nearby….as I imagine it does for many.

After tea and a bun in the attractive café in the park, I walked on towards my intended campsite…….clearly marked on the map with a little blue tent symbol. Well, maybe it took little blue tents in the distant past, but now the camping ground had become home to rows of permanent chalets. I asked nicely, but was equally politely turned away. Can’t blame them—people were paying good money to stay in these elegant garden sheds and certainly didn’t want some old tramp camping amongst the petunias.

I stomped off and plonked down on a nearby bench. Where now? I pulled out the map and searched around for alternatives. I had been using the excellent Ramblers’ Association guide to the walk but found nothing of immediate help there. The map showed plenty of sites along the seafront at Lowestoft but lacking phone numbers there was no way I could check before walking miles off the path. It was then that an idea struck me…and it has to be one heck of a strike sometimes to get through…what about the train?

A few yards away was the railway station. My imaginative use of public transport had stood me in good stead earlier in the …erm…walk. Why not now? I checked and found a train for Beccles was due at anytime. A quick glance at the map showed a campsite just outside the town.

Eureka..! Onto the platform and away. My feet singing a tune I hoped they had forgotten back on the North Norfolk coast …I laid back and chuffed quietly towards Beccles. The master plan was to come back on the train the following day and complete the walk basically on foot( there’s a novelty) Looking out of the window of the carriage and consulting the map…I couldn’t help but notice that the route of the Angles Way followed the river bank in a rather straightforward and potentially tedious way….oh well.

I arrived in Beccles in no time at all….the station bore signs of having been attacked by a bunch of malformed graffiti artists on a Youth Training Scheme. Shame, as Beccles is such a nice place. I walked into town and found the tourist office tucked away down by the quay. A delightful spot, populated by the usual assortment of feral ducks and ferocious duckies. The tourist office lay beside a shop typical of the kind I had encountered on the walk. It stocked everything from postcards to shredded suet …including some excellent ice cream which I bought purely for the sake of the local economy.

I decided to ask for help from the Tourist office in locating the campsite so prominently marked on my map…and so obviously missing on the ground. I was greeted by the very beautiful Claire …indeed, so enchanted was I that I failed to remember any of the fine details as to where to locate the campsite. Apparently it was quite a long way away…in another village or somewhere…but- hey-she was lovely. I think she asked if I could manage to walk much further, but I believe that I just smiled stupidly and nodded. Anyway, what followed was me and heavy pack and sore feet tramping off across the water meadow…up the embankment to the by-pass and a further 3 miles on hot tarmac to a farm based campsite , where I collapsed in a damp heap.

It turned out to be one of the nicest sites I have ever visited. Lush camping lawns set beside a large pond overhung with willows, A traditional washroom and loo block and cheery owners who only laughed a little at my feet. They also laughed at my route. I could have saved a mile and a half by using the tow path alongside the river…..which is what I now believe the delectable Claire was trying to tell me. I treated myself to a sort of pasta concoction and took a hot shower before laying back on the turf to savour my current reading matter….the, in my view…book of all books...Don Quixote. Tiredness and my ever fervid imagination carried me away to the dusty plains of La Mancha.

Before deciding to seek fame as a long distance walker, I had previously sought recognition for my exploits on a rusty old motorcycle. In the true spirit of Don Quixote, the misguided old dreamer who’s addled imagination had been perverted by reading too many cheap thrillers…I had ridden my motorbike across Spain and communed with the memory of that sad knight. Where he had mistaken a windmill for a wicked giant, I had managed to get lost on the council refuse tip while trying to reach a hill top windmill to take photographs.

I too had an encounter with a flock of sheep. He saw them as an oncoming army to be vanquished….whereas I merely saw a very large flock of sheep bearing down on me as I lay on the grass picnicking. The end result was similar…a hasty retreat from a toothless shepherd and his far from toothless sheepdogs. As I lay on the lawns before a centuries old farmhouse, I fancied that like the Inn in the story…it too might be magically transformed during the night to a fine Castle. Later as I slipped of to dreamland, I fancied I heard poor Sancho Panza being tossed high in a blanket by village ruffians.

I slept wonderfully well and woke to sunshine streaming through the tent entrance. I also woke to a cacophony of assorted waterfowl greeting the new day. Looking at the blue sky and fluffy clouds, I thought it might turn out to be a …erm…quacker. I planned to catch a train back to Oulton Broad and then walk back to Beccles. I booked the campsite for a further night and thus unencumbered by a whopping great pack, set out along the river back to Beccles.

Naturally I needed to call in at the tourist office . I needed to check something. Can’t remember what…but it must have been important as I waited ages to see Claire. She thought I looked a little peaky…and said “Good thing you came here and I was able to tell you about the shortcut eh? Otherwise you could have gone miles out of your way”

I explained my plan to walk back along the Angles Way. She became quite heated as she lambasted the authorities who had apparently closed the path to carry out maintenance right in the middle of the tourist season. I fancied that with the number of walkers that I had encountered, it might cost the shop next door about 3 quid in lost revenue…but joined her in condemning the thoughtless apparatchiks who would frustrate a bunch of ramblers in order to prevent the whole area flooding .

News that there were diversions on the route reinforced my observations from the train carriage yesterday that this was a section of the walk, which although obviously intensely interesting to potential drainage engineers, might best be kept unviewed until I had time to really savour it. As I grew up in the Fens around Wisbech, I had seen all the old dykes one might wish to encounter in a lifetime.

Thus freed by conscience from a further day’s painful trudge, I took the train with the idea of enjoying Oulton Broad and returning the same way. The conductor…for this was a rural train where you buy a ticket on board… asked my destination and after learning that I planned to return, delved into his book of fares to inform me in conspiratorial fashion, that I could save ten pence by booking a saver return to somewhere I didn’t really want to go. I smiled and shrugged. “ Ah yes!” says he “ Thass all very well saying thass only ten pence….but you try saying that to Sainsburys at the checkout if you hint got it!”

Fair enough I thought and thanked him for his kindness.

I hopped off the train. In fact I tended to hop everywhere since yesterday’s marathon haul. Heading for the quay and the lure of the pleasure steamers, I sat for a while in a gateway …nibbled on a Mars bar -obviously as it’s the snack food of the Olympics or something…it’s just the stuff for an athlete like me.

I lay back in the morning sunshine….a long long way from that first gateway in Norfolk with wet clothes strewn over the hedge. I ran my hands over the smooth warm timbers of the gate as I stretched out like some lithe toned feline. Then…with a tom cat like screech…I recoiled in agony as I impaled my hand on a sliver of wood.

Being a backwoods hero, I hoiked out most of the splinter and bandaged my hand with Elastoplast before setting out to find the boats.

I had always wanted to run away to sea. I believe my parents probably shared that dream. My sisters certainly did. The Quay could, in some lights, put one in mind of far flung oriental docks with memsahibs boarding tea clippers while sturdy native peoples busied themselves loading trunks, hat boxes, hockey sticks, pianos and all the other obscure paraphernalia hauled to the furthest reaches of Empire by the mentally deficient British.

I blinked and the whole scene dissolved before my eyes. A stout, but definitely un-exotic citizen asked gruffly - did I want to go on the Big One..? This apparently was the trip upriver into the darkest regions of the Waveney …beyond civilization…beyond even the sailing club.

I planned to haggle or work my passage…but that certain look in his sun narrowed eyes said….pay up and shut up lad.

I tripped up the gangplank….sniffing in a superior manner at the grinning crew member who gripped my elbow to steady me. If only he knew how far I had walked and over what terrain. What an insult.

I made my way forrard…as I believe matelotical folks say…found a comfy seat and settled back to clutch and suck my now throbbing hand. It clearly was not going to go away, although when clamped under my armpit and deprived of blood, the pain was bearable.

A jolly crowd of holidaymakers clambered aboard the boat and with a toot on the whistle we creaked away from our mooring and headed upriver. We reefed the topsails,luffed our jib and made way against an ebbing tide. I’ve no idea what that means but it sounds the sort of thing one does on a boat. Chugging on across the broad we left a trail of mayhem in our wake as rubber dinghy paddlers bounced spectacularly on our bow wave.

As we entered the river proper we came across a group of sailing dinghies aimlessly pirouetting and flapping in mid stream. The captain turned to us and said” Don’t want to panic anybody…but they’re all learners and on the first trip this morning ,one of the daft buggers smacked into us”

As we sailed along we were entertained by a lively commentary on the history of the Broads and it’s wildlife. I noted that I had the pleasure of not seeing the shy elusive bittern here as well as not seeing it in Cley! Most other wildlife remained shy and elusive too.

Where do birds go? One day the whole place is alive with the blessed things. If you fell overboard you’d land on a Godwit or Garganey…the next..…nothing, zilch. Perhaps it’s a case of alternate days….maybe they move around so on a given day one place is full and another empty. Maybe there’s a duty roster? Who knows? Bill Oddie probably.

Actually, we were besieged by a flotilla of attack ducks similar to those seen around Potter Heigham. They soon learn that soppy holidaymakers equals free grub . The Mallards squabbled over crusts thrown to them by the boat’s inmates whilst the Mute swans struggled to drag small children and other delicacies overboard. We passed jolly fisher folk, only too happy to pull in their lines as we approached. At least I think they were happy. One said something about having a laugh anyway. As we chugged along beside the earthen banks of the Waveney, I once again congratulated myself on being strong willed enough to avoid tiresome stretches of the various walks.

It proved to be a lovely trip…not to be missed. However, my hand had by now swollen further and was throbbing away with a vengeance. Once back ashore, I lost no time in boarding the train and heading back to Beccles. Now a wounded soldier and hence doubly attractive to a caring woman, I made straight for the tourist office and it’s very own Mother Teresa/Madonna/Florence Nightingale figure. She gave me a verbal thick ear for dawdling around all day with a lump of wood embedded in my hand( I may have made it sound a wee bit worse than it maybe was) . She packed me off to the Cottage Hospital nearby.

My poor bits have seen many a small local hospital…or maybe that should be the other way around? This one proved little different. After the hurly-burly of your average mega university Hospital it comes as shock to have to stomp around and holler to see if anyone is around.

Eventually, I was checked over by Nurse Rosie , a trained midwife who had spent time on Oil rigs, trained people in survival and presumably dealt with any births that may have occurred offshore. One might forgive her being less than overwhelmed by my wounds, however, she maintained her professional standards as she dealt with the eedjut with a splinter and a bit of swelling. Indeed she dug and probed with her needle and tweezers as though looking for shrapnel. Unable to extract all of it…she requested that a Doctor be asked to come and operate or at least mine a deeper lode.

We sat and chatted for ages waiting for the Doctor to finish open heart surgery or whatever it was that he was doing. When he did arrive , he bounded in, snatched up the implements, and dived in where Rosie had left off. A jolly, cheery chap, he grilled me as he dug deeper and deeper. “The Angles Way you say? I walked it last year.. how long are you taking? God what a wimp.. I did it in half that..” Imagine the above punctuated by howls of pain as the instruments bit into my inflamed flesh… not nice.

Eventually… bandaged up and clutching antibiotics, I trundled back to camp. I recall a particularly lovely walk along the riverside track with the sun setting fiery red over the marshes. Everything is so different on foot. You see the detail...hear the sounds…smell the smells…feel the textures.

The right of way passed through a large modern farm. I wove my way between aluminium silos…around mountains of bagged fertilizer and past locked stores of pesticides and fungicides. A Swedish built lorry window bore stickers saying “ Save our way of life” and “ Hunting is natural….foxes do it”

Back at the campsite, a posse of fresh faced youngsters with guitars and smiles had moved in. Their green ridge tents set up between the pale yellow patches on the grass left by departing campers, a mini bus parked nearby. Who were they? Maybe a youth group, a community church fellowship …..an outdoor chapter of the Cliff Richard fan club? It’s all part of the fun when camping…trying to stereotype the neighbours….while secretly envying their humour and happiness.

(26420) XXnXXX After another good night’s sleep, I woke early and ambled over to the wash block to shower. As I towelled myself vigorously whilst crooning my way through the Waylon Jennings songbook….a soft deep feminine voice breathed

“Good morning…my…you’re early…It’s a beauty isn’t it? “

I pulled the towel tighter- wondering how she knew.

“Where’s the ladies loo?” she asked huskily

“Erm round the back “ I said in a cracked parched instant-tea-less voice

“ Never mind...I’ll use this one. No-one around eh?”

And she did.

Camping brings out the primitive in people. I atavistically wolfed down my muesli and packed everything away. Bidding farewell to owner and all round good egg, Terry Goodwin , I trundled off in the general direction of Beccles town. In bidding Claire a fond farewell, I learned that her mother looked just like her and they were often mistaken for one another. I asked for an introduction should she ever want to meet a rambling legend with sore feet and a bad hand.

The sun blazed down as I made my way across the water meadows in the direction( well…general direction) of Bungay. I had read about the especially picturesque Geldeston Lock pub and diverted across a water meadow and through a herd of lowering heifers…and all that goes with them… only to find it closed . Apparently it was weekends only at the time. Shame as it is in a truly lovely spot.

Tramping on…wilting in the heat...I once again marvelled at how attractive my insect repellent seemed to be to all flying creatures great and small. This section was hard work. Some beautiful views over the river valley, but as much sugar beet as I ever want or need to see close up in a lifetime and miles of rough cloddy paths on field edges. I did sterling work with my Swiss army knife on the overgrown stiles and signposts though….and arrived as they say Hors de Combat at an attractive riverside campsite in Bungay. Once again, I was totally spent…feet of fire...knees of jelly…brain overheated.

The sympathetic owners told me where to pitch and strongly advised a long relaxed luxurious shower. Sadly, they forgot to tell the big hairy bloke from the next tent who, clearly concerned about my welfare, bashed on the door enquiring as to was I bloody drowning in there or somethink?

After showering, I retired to my tent completely exhausted. Surveying the remnants of my feet, I came to the inescapable conclusion that should I wish to walk anywhere the following day carrying a pack…those feet were most unlikely to accompany me. Thus after a

night’s sleep, I decided to book in for another day and rest up .

I spent the time slowly exploring Bungay. I confess that I also called in at the bus company office and picked up timetables to work out how soon I could get back home. Something of a low point on the journey.

I loved the ruined castle and tea rooms. Also the church with it’s famous Black Shuck story…the hell hound which snatched a parishioner or two during a violent storm. Wonderful stuff…although had I been camping wild on the river bank and heard a howl…I just might have felt differently. I did once have a similar experience in France when retracing the route of Robert Louis Stevenson’s walk with a donkey in the Cevennes ….having read about the legendary man-eating wolf-the Beast of Givaudan……I spent a rather restless night in the heather!

In Bungay, I had the good fortune to meet an expert on sore feet.

I was rummaging through the Dr Scholl department of a chemists shop seeking salvation, when the assistant asked if she could help. Turned out her son played rugby and frequently needed his feet patching. She sold me some hi-tech gel filled artificial skin type plasters plus foam tubing which were to transform my poor plates of meat. A real find.

The campsite offered canoe hire and other strenuous pursuits totally beyond my capabilities at that time. I settled for a picnic on the riverbank. As I entered the camp shop to buy my usual salad ingredients….chocolate…crisps...nuts etc...the lady said

” Ah I’ve heard about you and your feet” Fame at last.

It must have surprised her no end when I all but hop skipped and jumped past her the following day on the next leg of the journey.

This was to be another day of beautiful views coupled with long straight farm tracks through crops. However, this was an excellent section for wildlife. I saw a water rail, buzzards, a little owl and several marsh harriers. I took a leisurely lunch sat high above a water filled gravel pit watching the birds and defying the ants. After a steady day’s walking and with feet in reasonable shape, I arrived at Little Lakeland Campsite…an extremely well organised, tidy and well equipped site.

I did my usual soft shoe shuffle laundry routine…stomping naked on my dirty washing in the shower and then made for the café beside one of the eponymous fishing lakes. One veteran angler was feverishly scanning the framed photographs on the wall ;

“Am I still here then ?” he demanded to know.

“Oh yes…I’ve just shuffled them round a bit “ said the woman behind the counter

And there he was indeed…a yellowing photograph from years back...him clutching a carp the size of a sheep.

An amazing sport carp fishing, I hadn’t realised that the big fish often have names.

Anglers brag…”Hey...I caught the Black Pig again yesterday..!”

After a pleasant meal, I traipsed off to the local pub…The Bell. A very enjoyable evening reading and sipping red wine. Everytime I guffawed at my Terry Pratchett book, a big dog started to bark at me. When I say “big” I’m not kidding…..turns out it was a cross between an Irish wolfhound and an Old English sheepdog .XX,ii,X 27;409 kXX

It certainly amused the regulars…me chortling...the dog barking…it’s owner cussing –Aye….we made our own fun in them days.

As I sat sipping the red lifeline, food started arriving for my fellow diners. It looked absolutely delicious and I made a mental note to return one day and sample it for myself.

Eventually it was time to stagger back to the tent…obviously any slight tendency to walk less than straight was due to exhaustion from walking in the heat of the sun. The wine may have added a little…but it was definitely exhaustion. After some searching and the occasional nose dive from badly sited guy ropes…I managed to find my tent and collapse within. I slept very deeply and soundly for several hours, until the inevitable corollary of taking in large quantities of liquid enforced more guy line slow motion skipping en route to the toilet block.

I awoke to a bright new day, already hot at the crack of nine o clock.

A trifle fuzzy headed, I packed the rucsack and took my leave. As the sun climbed so did the temperature…..a real tabloid “Phew what a scorcher” day. I walked into Harleston and stocked up on provisions. It would have felt more authentic buying beef jerky and beans….but Budgens were all out of real pioneer chow. I settled for yet more Pot noodles, Custard Creams and tinned pineapple. I did treat myself to a cup of coffee in an attractive pavement café….catching a snatch of a conversation about Scottish people…how they were foreigners…but damned fine engineers..

The angles way squirmed out of Harleston via backyards , allotment tracks and half hidden footpaths. This was a most enjoyable section of the walk, taking in lush water meadows full of wild flowers and equally wild cattle. The sun blazed down and in between boggy patches where I had to squelch through the mud, I amused myself by imagining I was lost in the outback without water. The illusion was greatly enhanced by the buzzards circling overhead. I hadn’t seen one in East Anglia before…and now they seemed to be accompanying me. I had heard that they go for the eyeballs first….so determined to use my dying breath to roll over onto my front. Buzzards have a rather pathetic call like a cat mewing. Deceptive no doubt…just like cats. I remember a cat lover saying to me

“ I have no illusions about Felix…if he were big enough...I’m sure he’d eat me with no compunction”

Later, I came across two bewildered looking walkers clutching a map.

“We’ve been lost four times…and we’ve only come about a mile!” said the hot and harassed female member of the pair.

“Tut! Mary, why do you always exaggerate everything so much ?” snorted the equally hot , sticky and somewhat peevish map-clutching male. He blundered on while she paused for breath and warned me about the jungle conditions ahead.

She wasn’t exaggerating this time. Nettles grew head high and were overhung by brambles and pretty dog roses protected by vicious hooked thorns. A million flies clearly found all this to their liking and plastered my sweaty face each time I dared to pause to catch my breath. Once more I slopped on 100% Deet fly repellent….squirting it on hat shirt and…for good measure…socks.

But these were real flies…not the wimpy kind found in Malaysia and easily conquered with a quick spray of instant insect death.