Clueless In Roydon

Regular readers of this space will know that I like things organised. It's a bit of a blow then, to report that this week's walk was a shambles.

Our starting point should have been a disused railway line, located in the left hand corner of the car park just outside the village of Roydon, in North Norfolk. Yeh, that left hand corner bit was always going to be an issue. Could we find it? Could we heck. After wandering about like lost children in a supermarket, we finally threw caution to the wind and headed off piste. 

Ducking down a narrow lane between a couple of million pound homes, we emerged in a beautiful field, where we lay in the warm sunshine. I couldn't really relax though, because I hadn't told Sue about the "Beware of the Bull" sign. I figured one of the homeowners had put it up because he wanted the field as his private garden, but I couldn't be sure. Fortunately Sue was distracted by some noisy crows at the far side of the field, endlessly circling above the trees, like floating pieces of burnt paper.

Pushing on, we passed through a small wood with a dormant stream, before carefully edging round a farmer's field that was more flint than soil. This brought us out at the Anvil Arms where the star musical attraction for the weekend was "Bad Dog." Very loud and very  popular with the local farmers I should imagine.

Approaching Sandringham, there was a change in the landscape: suddenly the grass was greener, the brickwork more mellow and the driveways longer. For this, is indeed, the land of large country estates, the sort featured in period TV dramas: a place where at the sound of rotor blades, locals like to doff their caps, as young Will heads home to tea and Kate.

The reality, of course is that people, do actually live in these vast places. But I'm guessing it's  probably not anyone you or I know.

Happisburgh Delight

Let me tell you something that really irritates me. It's when the local council tarmac a few square metres next to the beach, bung up a toilet and then charge the public a fiver for a couple of hours parking. Ok, so that's off my chest.

Anyway, if that's what Happisburgh council had planned for me, it wasn't going to work. Instead we parked up on Church Lane and strolled the quarter of a mile back to the car park. The area around was heaving with people preparing to walk, or so we thought. Strange because ten minutes later, Sue and I were the only ones actually walking. The great British public clearly had other plans: some snoozed in their cars; a few junior adventurers made it to the beach; others opted for the pub; and the rest were queuing for chips at the cafe.

Alone and quite happy we walked the new coastal path, enjoying some great views. Heading inland, the temperature soared, as did our spirits, allowing us to contemplate, meditate and unravel the knots of the week.

Before heading north west, we passed, what I guess was Norfolk's biggest pile of poo. Unpleasant, but as Sue pointed out, excellent for clearing the nasal cavities. Next up we tracked a manicured pathway leading to a beautiful equestrian field, fringed with green willows and expensive fencing. For a moment I thought someone had picked up Lords cricket ground and dropped it in Norfolk.

On the final leg we caught up with a couple of portly walkers, who were entertaining their dog with one of those fetch ball-throwing devices. And indeed the dog did look fit. The adults, on the other hand, had clearly, never learned how to say no to a nice lunch. I was going to suggest a change in throwing/fetching duties, but wisely held my tongue.

If you've been to Happisburgh, you'll know that the landscape is dominated by two enormous erections: one the church tower on the hill, the other, a candy striped phallus - the lighthouse. It was while heading towards these, that we enjoyed a slice of good fortune. Almost at the termination of our walk, we came out opposite a small fishmongers, where we bought Cromer crab, with the money saved on the car parking.

A couple of minutes later, armed with plastic forks, we were enjoyed our  meal, accompanied with picture postcard views, across the downs and out to sea: our chosen viewing point was a bench in the graveyard at the top of the hill; as good a place as any to end the day.

The Toft Monks

Back in the day, casting about for band names was always fun and generally preferable to the tedium of rehearsing. Before settling on the VIPs we had numerous daft ideas, including The Pox Doctor's Clerk, George Bean and the Runners and my choice The Toft Monks. Quite rightly, the boys in the band didn't want to know.

However the name stuck with me and so it was with some excitement that Sue and I headed up the Yarmouth Road to explore Toft Monks and its hinterland. By my calculation we had a two hour slot of sunshine, before the day slipped away into further rain and wind.

April first served up a blustery day of scudding clouds, nodding daffs and sparkling blue sky. Leaving the car parked up by the church, we followed the path through the graveyard, the wind tugging hard at our clothing. The moment we stepped from the shelter of the church wall was a shock: an arctic  type shock.

Regardless, we put our hoods up and headed out across open fields. Five cold minutes later, we  merged with a beautiful green walkway, where we were blown and buffeted towards a secret path through conifers. Inside the tunnel, the forest floor was sprung carpeted with debris from the previous night's storm.

At this point there was a minor, map reading malfunction: but not to worry, because this slip up inadvertently brought us out near the green. Maypole Green. Imagine the place: a large open grassy area; a gathering of lovely farm building, nicely aged by wind and warmth; and then a pond: the whole scene set in a palette of muted grey, greens and brown. 

No sign of a maypole, but we happily sat on a bench watching mad hares, boxing in the sunshine. At ten thirty, on a sunny Wednesday in April, it was as lovely a place as you'd find anywhere.

Oh and before I leave you - what about The March Hares as a band name?

The Bridge At Ingham

Come Friday and I was a man on a mission: namely to get some living done.

Once again my friends at BBC weather were spot on, because my arrival at Ingham church coincided with glorious sunshine. Oddly the car park next door was rammed. This was quickly explained when I realised the adjacent building was the Ingham Swan and that it was pints and not the pulpit that was attracting customers.

Dismissing thoughts of cool beer in a dark, pub lounge, I followed the path through the pretty graveyard. All around me spring was busting out, but all I could think was - what a lovely day for a burial. Macabre thoughts indeed.

Next up, it was straight across the field, along a path forged by some thoughtful, tank-driving farmer: then out onto a lane and past a notice advertising "Quiz & Chips" at the village hall. Shame I was busy that evening.

Now with Sue otherwise engaged, there was always a good chance today of a cock up on the orienteering front. So far it had been nay bother. But now I was facing my first problem: to make further progress, I had to find the bridge indicated on the map. Nothing. Ten minutes and a lot of zig-zagging later, I finally found the "bridge." Four steps was sufficient to cross it.

Finally after further bridges, banks, ditches and dykes, I spied Ingham church in the distance. Like some returning crusader, I was fully able to appreciate what a welcoming site this must have been for travellers in former times. 

Finally as I drove off, it was with raised spirits. Mission accomplished.

Thurne Photo Shoot

I don't doubt that one day soon I'll take a great photo; yesterday wasn't that day. Let me assure you, it wasn't for want of trying. With my handy Panasonic Lumix, I took over fifty shots, later edited down to just five that I liked.

Conditions at Thurne (turn left a mile after the Acle Bridge ) were ideal for both walking and photo-snapping.


On arrival we parked up at the Staithe: a kind of nautical cul-de-sac, with boats, birds, yachts and lots of rattling in the rigging. From here, we followed boot marks along the river and out past Thurne Mill. This stretch affords plenty to admire: marsh and moor; wind and water; distant churches, donkeys and an all round, top flight display of ducks and devilish air power. A smorgasbord of the natural world.


Turning away from what was now the River Bure, we enjoyed some wonderfully, exhilarating walking as we linked with the Weavers' Way. Here the wind dropped and the clouds disappeared, leaving us to admire the sunlit uplands ahead.

Yes, you read right - strangely for Norfolk, we were moving upwards, towards the church at the top of the ridge. Be sure to look over your shoulder, westwards, for a panoramic view of Norfolk's finest. Take an evening stroll with the sun setting and I guess you might get the picture I was searching for.

In a fortunate piece of planning, the final stretch was downhill, past the church, across a piggery and through some old farm buildings before returning to the Staithe.

It was three o'clock, it was Saturday and we had enjoyed a lovely walk on the warmest day of the year so far. So you tell me - where was everyone?

Location:Snake's Lane,Lowestoft,United Kingdom