People love to bang on about the UK being overcrowded. Well I'm not so sure: I say that because everywhere I've visited over the last six weeks has been empty - and last Tuesday proved to be no different ......
So it's Monday evening and Sue has just chucked a photo-copied map at me saying, "That's tomorrow's trip sorted."
Chedgrave? I remember playing a gig there once; and I know the White Horse serves Timothy Taylor; and Kelly once had a dodgy boyfriend who lived out that way. But what's to see?
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By nine thirty we are parked up in Chedgrave, alongside the graveyard - always handy I guess, should things go badly wrong.
Five minutes after descending the path between an orchard and some mellow-bricked cottages and I'm already considering a move to the country.
See this is what gets me: before you can say "countryside" we are crossing a vast meadow, topped by an over-arching blue sky. And there's just nothing in any direction, but a whole bunch of nature. So how come there are so many areas like this in Norfolk that I've never been to? And how comes there's only ever a few lost souls wandering these backwaters?
The next five miles are fun. Early into the walk we chat with a pair of returning cyclists. "How far you been?" I ask. "Two hundred yards," he replies, trying desperately to keep a straight face so as not to blow the comedy moment. Next up Sue, super-charged with endorphins, is climbing an oak overhanging the River Chet, just at the point I strike up a conversation with a local. Ten minutes into the conversation and with noises coming from behind me, I have the surreal pleasure of pointing out my girlfriend, "Yea she's the one in the tree." Soon after that comes the "Danny the Champion" experience: Sue's not great with birds, so the moment half-a-dozen pheasants ambush her in the trees proves interesting. Interesting, if you like a lot of screaming and flapping.
But best of all is the part where we come across a crew of ten people doing some dredging work on a new canal. No let's be accurate: one guy's operating the digger while the remainder in what look like brand new helmets and high vis jackets, stand, hands in pockets enjoying the sunshine. It looks like a civil engineers' convention and I am about to spoil it. At the moment I take the photo, one of them sees me, shouts and suddenly they scatter faster than the aforementioned pheasants. I'm guessing they're alarmed at the prospect of my photo getting back to the people who pay their wages.
Finally on the home stretch, the skies darken and the rain arrives, but by then it doesn't matter because in the words of American DJ, Wolfman Jack - "it had been a toe-curlin' blast."
Location:Pottergate,Norwich,United Kingdom
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