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?