The truth is I'm writing about East and West Beckham, two forgettable villages on the outskirts of Sheringham. Did I just say forgettable? - well that was what I thought, having previously never been aware of their existence.
To fortify ourselves for what was certain to be a disastrous visit, Sue and I opted for an expensive breakfast at Byfords, Holt. Apparently Prince Charles, Camilla and the two young 'uns had been in just last week.
East Beckham at first glance was not encouraging, stretched out, as it was, on a long (and winding) road, like some sleepy cat. Sure it was quiet: witness a pair of super relaxed pheasants, smoking and chatting as we strolled past. Ironically, the only motorised vehicle to break the silence was a blue and white Tesco home delivery van.
After ten minutes I was reduced to reading the parish notice board: and by the way, I'm pleased to report there was no crime in the last quarter and two new village signs have been erected.
About to give up on EB, we spotted a Loke heading hillwards. And suddenly the game changed: ahead were six lovely cottages with views and beyond that a delightful woodland trail hugging the fields. Give me wifi and I'd have been more than happy to have my groceries delivered right there. At the very last moment East Beckham had thrown down the gauntlet.
Heading west, it was now game on. On paper West Beckham had it all: big barns, big cars, pretty cottages, a church and a pub. But what's this: the pub was only open Wednesday to Sunday; the council tenants were kept out of sight down the dip; the estate house was backing UKIP and his neighbour was flying the very large version of the St. George's flag. And all around was the regular Norfolk sound of rooks and gunshot.
Now I pass no judgement - I merely observe but I like to think that Posh and Becks, even with all their moolah, would have made the right decision and chosen East Beckham.
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