When I first moved to Norfolk I was thrilled to discover that barely six miles from my home, was a place called California, so named, because gold coins had been found in the cliffs, at the same time as the American Gold Rush was happening. I have to say my first visit there was not great.
Well yesterday, almost thirty years later, I went back. Visualise if you will a one horse/one road town with arcades, a general store, caravan parks and Trisha's Chippy all fighting for scraps from Yarmouth's tourist industry and all living with the threat of erosion. At the end of the road, just before you fall into the North Sea, is the town's most famous landmark, the California Tavern.
This truly is, the land that time forgot: a place where non-standard construction is the norm, where health and safety officers aren't welcome and where a shanty town of lean-to's and unfinished DIY projects cluster together under a web of low slung power lines.
But here's the thing. As you stroll down unmade roads, gawping at gardens, decorated with choked plants, batteries, cars mounted on bricks and abandoned bikes, it's occasionally possible to catch a glimpse between houses. And there, just yards away, is grass sloping down to the sea and sky. Breathtaking. In the south of France you'd wait years and pay a king's ransom for such a place. Here I reckon you could pitch up with a van, put up a shed over the weekend and stay forever.
Hey I had a great afternoon - no really: many people, seeing the place, would order an immediate drone strike, but I enjoyed the town's ramshackle charm.
Would I live there? Well if you like the sea and the wind and life on the edge, then the place might appeal. I dread to imagine, however a winter spent perched on those cliff tops with the North Sea as your nearest neighbour. Tell you what though, it would make a great place to develop a serious drinking habit.
No comments:
Post a Comment