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

Catfield Calling

The only reason I'm familiar with Catfield, is because Kim, who played in our band, lived out that way. Memories are of some barren, wind-swept place at the back of beyond. Maybe it was time to take another look.

Wednesday was a special hat blowing, hair pulling, car door slamming kind of day: a day for padded coats and silly hats. But along with the snapping wind, came bursts of sunshine that made you feel you were dressed in a pocket of warm air.

Pretty soon we were in Catfield and surprise, surprise ...... it turned out to be a proper village with a shop, a pub, a B&B and some lovely properties.

Soon we were walking across wind-dried fields and along pretty lanes. We were free to walk the middle of the road because there was no traffic, other than a giant TNT lorry, negotiating the lanes in search of Ethel at number seven, who had stayed in all day to take delivery of her new low-loader washing machine.

Having seen no one, we were surprised, at the next turn to meet up with the Highway Support Unit in their super, new van. Spotting us, two guys in attractive yellow tops, immediately jumped up and started repairing a tiny blemish on the road: we're talking here of a road ravaged by maybe twenty cars a day. Seems to me the Highway Agency needs to get out and about more.


Finally we shot off, like a pair of March hares, down a tiny track that brought us out next to the most perfect Georgian house: a house where you imagine life to be as contented as a baby's sigh. The picture was perfectly framed with a foreground of daffodils and a trail of smoke blowing across from a garden bonfire.

Wordsworth would have been thrilled.

Location:Snake's Lane,Lowestoft,United Kingdom

Cantley Sugar Rush

"What about a trip out to Cantley marshes?" Now that's a question you don't hear too often.

Mention Cantley and most people share the same vision - a vast plume of smoke billowing from the sugar beet factory. As a sight it's not regulation pretty, but viewed from back across the marshes, it can look dramatic. Plus with the wind in the right direction, you're guaranteed a free sugar high.

Well this week we decided to take a gander. The recommended route is simple: down Marsh Lane, over the railway track, across the marsh, along to Langley Abbey and back along the river bank; then past the Reedcutter Inn and through the church graveyard to the village hall.


Now, I knew we were due a cracking day but I was unprepared for the beauty and diversity of the area. The marsh was carpeted an electric green and decorated with streams of petrol blue. And there in the middle, with its own pool and three trees was Cantley's very own oasis. It was like a scene from,"Out of Africa" with me playing the part of Robert Redford. Indeed it was so cool, I had to hold Sue's hand as we walked: not only was this romantic, it also served as a good way of slowing her down.

Look I don't know a lot of wildlife, but there was some serious activity going down over that marsh. First up there were some nasty, marsh harrier types putting the wind up the regular geese, just cos they could; then a Chinese water deer, with spring fever ran himself stupid for ten minutes trying to bag a lapwing; and later, a shower of shell ducks, sparkling like silver dollars, swooped all around us, just plain showing off. And this whole show was provided free, gratis and for nothing.

Next time the sun comes out and you've got nothing to do, just try the question about Cantley Marshes.

Location:Pottergate,Norwich,United Kingdom

Long Walk To Banningham

In today's blog I explain how to turn a short walk into a long walk. But first some background.

Knowing rain was expected, Sue and I turned up early in Banningham, a tiny village (population 524): of whom we saw three.

After just two minutes, it was obvious that our route for the day was flat and exposed. A shame then about the Siberian wind. Sensible Sue, looking like an extra from the Swedish drama "Fortitude" was appropriately dressed in arctic parka mode, while Dozy Dick, was inappropriately dressed in a crombie, more suited to Threadneedle Street.

Ok, for those of you who want nothing more than details of the walk - here they are: followed a nice stretch of the Weavers Way that traced the railway line from Birmingham to Great Yarmouth; did plenty of edge of field walking; found a few sheltered pathways, some hidden lanes and only had to negotiate a small amount of road work. Photographers will particularly enjoy the dead farm machinery that litters this area.


Now back to that long walk. It all came about, because we ignored the warning sign. Our short cut turned out to be an ankle-turning tangle of trunks and roots. Inadvertently we had stumbled into a No Man's Land inhabited by moles and a particularly vicious breed of bramble. With no way forward, we had to (like Shorty) cut across country.


This necessitated limboing under a barbed wire fence and then climbing over a second, less dangerous wire fence. Normally not a problem. Now factor in the information that there were just eighteen inches between the two fences and calculate the manoeuvre. The image of Sue burrowing for freedom, like some escaped POW is secure in my mental scrapbook.

For a good half an hour we were clueless. I mean we could have been in Belgium. Casting about for guidance, we eventually found a sign. It said Aylsham. Not at all what we wanted.

At this point we turned about and like a pair of lost souls, headed across the fields of North Norfolk, in search of the tiny village of Banningham.

Location:Snake's Lane,Lowestoft,United Kingdom

A Chance Meeting In Neatishead

For some time now, I have been concerned about my right ear. Imagine, if you will, sharing your head with a family of spiders and you'll get the idea. Well last night the spiders were particularly restless.

Next morning a change of scene was required and so we headed north to Neatishead - a posh place by Norfolk standards. Why even the car park was pretty. In the village, the brickwork was mellow and the gardens extensive with borders and hedges that had been tortured and beaten into shape. Not too many labour voters round here I guess.

Our first stop on the trail, was the boardwalk at Barton Broad. This Millennium project appears to be Norfolk's answer to the Everglades, but without the alligators. We stopped to enjoy the solitude, the silence only broken by the sound of my tinnitus.


Next up we tracked along a river bank, picking out snow drops, those yellow aconites and the first showing of daffodils. All the while, Sue talked about the blinds for her new home and I tried to nod in the right places.

And then something strange happened. A casual,"Good morning" to a guy tending his garden extended to a forty minute conversation. Turns out the "gardener" was on first name terms with Norfolk's leading audiologist. Now my Google search suggests the population of Norfolk is in the region of 900,000, so how comes I manage to meet up, in some back lane in Neatishead with a guy who might be able to help?

Reflecting on the random nature of life, we made our way to Alderfen Broad where there wasn't a sign of life and the only sound was the occasional falling leaf. Except that is, in my head, where it sounded like an anvil dropping on a meringue.

Location:The Street,Lowestoft,United Kingdom

Fleggburgh In February

It's that time of the year when it's important to get out and about. Otherwise, before you know it, you've gained six pounds and lost the use of your legs.

Watching the weather, we opted for a trip out to Fleggburgh, where we'd heard there was a short walk and a good local pub.

Parking at the village hall was easy. Now tell me this - are all village halls built to the same specification? And is the brief always the same: as in - here's £50,000; now build us something multi-functional and don't worry too much about the exterior. And if possible, could you add a bottle bank. Oh and one for clothes and one for newspapers.Thanks.


If you like variety this walk is a winner. On offer were: mysterious footpaths through churchyards and old holiday camps; "Deliverance" style woodland, where you could imagine the sound of duelling banjos; a mosaic of wetlands, magnificent oak trees and remote cottages occupied by lonely pensioners with cold hearts and too much money.

Oh but what fun we had: we passed close to Muck Fleet Dyke, posed at Nab End Pond and paused at the kissing gate; we skipped muddy puddles, popped up in people's gardens and happily pursued the sunshine.

And here's the reward. Take your debit card and have lunch at the Kings Arms. Somebody has done more than just throw money at this enterprise. Somebody has made a real effort here and it shows. Now tell me when was the last time you could say that about a dining out experience?

Location:The Street,Lowestoft,United Kingdom

Potter Heigham - I Apologise

There are only so many times you can avoid visiting Potter Heigham. On Saturday, I finally gave in.

Our arrival off the A149 was less than exciting: the car park was rammed with mobility style cars and inside Lathams, people were tucking into jumbo sausage rolls and super-sized tea cakes. Nobody gave a damn about what they were wearing.


Unprepared, we stepped outside into tundra conditions. The road ahead, named Middle Wall, was straight and led across exposed marshland. It looked like the opening scene to "Great Expectations" and quite frankly, I didn't fancy it. Sensing my reluctance, Sue marched off at some ridiculous SAS training speed.

But after half a mile, there was a change: the strait started to curve a little; small trees suddenly lined our route; and the sun made an appearance. This wasn't at all bad.

Soon we entered the nature reserve, where the challenge was to stay upright. "Good choice Mr Roberts," said Sue slippin' and a slidin' along: the mud, merely adding to her fun.

Did I mention the surroundings? All around us petrified trees, lay in some glutinous, primordial swamp: the scene filtered through sun and shadow, resembled a vast, modern art installation.

After remote cottages, churches and a trek through forest, we suddenly emerged at the edge of Hickling Broad. Here, the water appeared some kind of chemically charged super blue.

The last part of our walk, took us along the River Thurne and past riverside, holiday homes, which looked delightful in daylight. But at night, the proximity of all that cold, dark, water might not be so welcome.

By early afternoon, the cold was once again kicking in. But it was too late for me. Too late, because even my icy, republican heart had warmed to Potter Heigham and its various walkways.


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Location:Pottergate,Norwich,United Kingdom