9. Cromwell, near Newark-on-Trent
    CC affiliated site
    24^th - 26^th March

Wow! I've really fallen on my feet this time. Fabulous site, absolutely fabulous. My pitch overlooks a beautiful lake with lots of wildfowl. £12-50 a night, a gift. Huge pitches, separated by low hedges or, as the brochure puts it “screened by shrubs and boarders”. Went for a bike ride to the village to post some cards and spotted a mountain of beer casks beside the road. I'm next door to a micro-brewery!

It's called the Milestone Brewery and I had a chat with the boss (about 30 years old). He got his equipment from a failed brewery in Ireland and it cost him only £15,000. The big cost, he said, was casks; you need three times your brewing capacity (to allow for cycling the casks) and they cost £50 a piece. 10 years ago he set the whole thing up for £50,000 and now supplies pubs all over the country, including some Wetherspoon's.

He must be brewing now, because there is that lovely smell wafting over the site, just like on Thursdays in Horsham when King and Barnes were brewing. I notice his bottled beer is bottle-conditioned, like Worthington White Shield (i.e. it's got dregs in the bottom). I'll take a couple up to Martin. 

A beautiful sunny day but a bitterly cold wind. Only a 17-mile drive, the last bit up the A1. The site is in Cromwell, a village which used to be on the A1 but which has been by-passed for many years. It looks very prosperous and there is a terrace of very interesting cottages.

                                                          The Governor's House, Newark

Now, here is another rant; something which has really been getting my goat for some time now and on which I must vent spleen. I detest the politically correct tendency to re-write history. Poor old Winston was employed to re-write history in 1984 and that's what the Communists always did and that's what the Bottom Inspectors, in particular the BBC, are doing now. Apparently, we fought the Nazis in WWII and not, after all, the Germans. The German people of my generation have come to terms with the guilt of their fathers' generation and we have all moved on, with the proviso that, as George Santayana said “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. ”. Re-writing this history is as insulting to the new Germans as it is to the victims, the survivors and to their descendants. I'm as glad as the next man that we are all friends now, but I don't like the re-writing of history, the whitewashing of unpleasant facts. It insults me as well. So to-day I was delighted to hear an old chap telling the truth. There is a celebration in Poland of the 70^th anniversary of the Great Escape and a BBC newsreader mentioned that the escapers who had been re-captured had been “executed by the Nazis”. A RAF officer who was in the camp at the time but was not one of the escapers was then interviewed and he said that the escapers who had been re-captured had been “murdered by the Germans”. No whitewashing for him.

                                                                                              Newark Castle

This morning (Monday) I listened to Professor Jim Al-Khalili's programme “The Life Scientific” on Radio 4. I always enjoy it (he just chats for half an hour to eminent scientists about their lives and work) but to-day's has found a new hero for me. Has anyone heard of Alf Adams? Why haven't we all heard of him? His name should be spoken in the same breath as Newton or Einstein. He invented the type of laser which is in our DVD and CD players, in supermarket check-out readers, in all scanners and in many communications systems - and he had the idea while strolling with his wife on Bournemouth beach! His father, a cobbler and semi-professional boxer, never went to school because he was born with TB. His mother left school at 12. This towering genius made not a penny out of his invention. He was made a Fellow of the Royal Society, but why, when Kissinger and Obama can get the Nobel Peace Prize, has he not been awarded the Physics prize? Read about this astonishing man here:-

http://www.theguardian.com/higher-education-network/blog/2012/feb/24/alf-adams-laser-research-universities

Not even a knighthood (what a silly idea the honours system is anyway), surprising when you think that Fred Goodwin and Jimmy Saville were knighted. Still, perhaps he refused one.

Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. My eagle-eyed daughter Katie has spotted an error in my page about Thetford. I blamed William Cobbold for losing Tom Paine's bones. William who? It was, of course, William Cobbett. Why did I write “Cobbold”? The only Cobbold I know is John Cobbold who was chairman of Ipswich Town Football Club (before the chairman of an English football club had to be a foreign crook). He owned a brewery, so perhaps I was thinking about beer. Well spotted, Katie.

Freezing cold day to-day, but there are some hardy fisherman around the lake. A thorough tour of Newark is needed, especially as it is market day to-day. The photo of the Governor's House is there because it was an important building during the Civil War. It was here that Charles I finally realised that his much-celebrated nephew, Prince Rupert of the Rhine, was a total pillock, after he had lost yet another battle with a gallant cavalry charge against the well-disciplined and battle-hardened New Model Army troops of the Parliamentary army. And another thing; Rupert refused to stop wearing his trademark red jumper and yellow checked trousers. He was also getting fat on Gregg's sausage rolls from downstairs.

The market was enormous. Must have been 50 stalls. I found one which had every tool and item of hardware known to man and bought, for £2, a three-inch long sliding bevel. God knows what I'll do with it, but I found it irresistible.

                                                               A very small sliding bevel

Another thing Newark has going for it is Boyes, a mad small department store, branches of which are in Darlington and Stokesley, where my nephew Martin and his family live. They have a good modelling supplies department with miniature tools, including a tiny brass Archimedes drill, and the full range of Humbrol paints. I bought an illuminated magnifying head band. You might be allowed to see a photo of me wearing it.

I saw very few fatties but quite a few young ladies, and some not so young, who looked like Travellers, with extravagant dress sense, orange complexions, dyed-black hair in cottage-loaf hairstyles, tons of bling and even, on a blisteringly cold day, some bare midriffs. There are many cosy-looking cafés and they all seemed to be packed with middle-aged and old ladies scoffing their heads full. Few men. Perhaps the old ladies have eaten them, too.

The town has a marvellous antiques shop called Gracegentle's, with a superb Gauge 1 model of a Fowler traction engine in the window and it also has a School of Violin Making. Imagine, Newark twinned with Cremona. It also has two railway stations; Northgate, on the East Coast mainline (King's Cross to Edinburgh) and half a mile away, Castle on the line to St. Pancras and serving Grimsby, Leicester, Nottingham and all points north as far as Liverpool.

                                                       An illuminated magnifying headband

The Castle looms over the Trent, which is real man's river here, by the bridge which leads into the town up Beast Market Hill. It is “one of those ruins that Cromwell knocked about a bit”. The town was a Royalist stronghold and withstood three sieges during the Civil War. After the end of the war Cromwell ordered it to be demolished but got distracted by a world shortage of wart cream before the job was complete.

The repellent King John died in the castle in 1216, his duplicity and greed having exhausted every loyalty. He was the Tony Blair of the 13th Century.

I went into Waitrose. Oh, joy! Very few Waitrose branches on my travels, so I treasure each one. It is the only supermarket where I can buy “Thai Taste” Satay Peanut Sauce (mmm). I rarely buy anything else in there, but wander salivating among the fruit and vegetables and sausages and cold meats and the deli counter and the bakery, keeping my hand on my wallet to save me from myself. The quality, the quality! The prices, the prices!

The bus journey to and fro the town was interesting, along the A1 for a bit then a dive into the pretty village of North Muskham. The houses in the area are very red, with red-brick and red pantiles. I saw the finest Georgian (or faux-Georgian) house there, the simplicity of its design giving it perfect balance and symmetry. It could have been drawn by a child but was a pleasure to look at. Everywhere, magnolia and forsythia is coming into bloom in gardens to add to the colour of cherry, may, daffodils and primroses. The A1 to Scotland runs alongside the main East Coast main railway line to Doncaster, York, Darlington, Newcastle and Edinburgh.

Just outside the town is a huge British Sugar Corporation sugar beet factory with about 200 cars in the staff car park. It reminded me what happened to sugar production in Ireland, thanks to the EU and the incompetent and corrupt Fianna Fáil government. Two big beet factories, one in Carlow and one in Mallow, Co. Cork. Big employers themselves and the factories supporting a thriving local farming community. The EU wanted to end sugar production within its realm and encourage it in the Third World. The Irish government caved in and the factories were closed. (The UK thankfully did not cave in and there are 200 cars in the staff car park at BSC Newark). Why could the Irish beet not have been converted into biofuels? To support the economies of the Third World is a fine thing, but be sure your beneficiary is not a kleptocracy where the GDP is trousered by 10 oligarchs who use it to buy diamond-encrusted Rolls Royces, private jets, houses in Eton Square and in sending their sons to Eton while the rest of the population starves with, if any, only poisonous drinking water.     

                                                                        The Trent at Newark

 

7. Hartsholme Country Park, Lincoln
    Local authority site
   20th-24^th March

Vernal equinox - first day of spring. Freezing cold, big anorak back on. Our weather really IS mad. Two weeks ago I was in shorts. Well, we won't talk it better, so …...................

The drive up from Thetford was pretty uniformly boring, although it got better. Initially dead-straight A17 alongside dead-straight railway line alongside dead-straight river. Enormous flat fields, stretching as far as the eye could see; no trees, no hedges. Farmhouses set in the midst of these prairies, looking like stills from all those films about the American Mid-West. After Sleaford on the A15, as I neared Lincoln, however, the road started to undulate and dry-stone walls started to appear. It was turning into Yorkshire!

Went past a village called Burton Pedwardine. I wonder if this is the same “wardine” I encountered in Shropshire and Herefordshire, meaning an enclosure. After Sleaford I spotted Boothby Graffoe, which is the name of a comedian and is in “The Meaning of Liff”:-

BOOTHBY GRAFFOE (n.)
1. The man in the pub who slaps people on the back as if they were old friends, when in fact he has no friends, largely on account of this habit.

  2.  Any story told by Robert Morley on chat shows.

Lincoln is on quite a hill and the cathedral is right on top of it. I made the mistake of going into the city on the day I arrived; I've always taken the afternoon to settle in and rest after the drive. As a consequence, being tired, I didn't like the place at all and got thoroughly ill-tempered. Luckily the buses are every 10 minutes. I got even grumpier when I discovered I had no TV coverage. I'll try again when I am restored. I'm sure it's a lovely city really.

The amazing Murray Walker on Desert Island Discs. He is a jazz fan and said, en passant, that Chris Barber used to race cars. Must find out more. As one of his records he had one of the Sound Stories he made with his father and he chose one of my two – the 1961 Junior TT with the thrilling duel between Gary Hocking and Mike Hailwood on the MV Agusta “fire-engines”. As soon as I can I must digitise my two LP's so I can play them whenever I feel the need. On the other one, a celebration of the Diamond Jubilee TT in 1967, is the sound of Hailwood on the 285cc six-cylinder Honda flat out. I can still remember that sound from seeing him win the unlimited race at the end of the Easter Monday Brands Hatch meeting with Dad at about the same time. There, I feel better after that. Sorry, normal service has been resumed.

Walker thought the new Formula 1 season would be very exciting with the new regulations and I must say I'm looking forward to it. My interest in cricket and football is definitely fading and I found the rugby internationals, apart from the France/Ireland match, very boring, so I think I may be becoming a motor-racing fan. That doesn't mean I have to watch Top Gear, does it?

Saturday now, and I'm not really doing Lincoln justice. Went for a decent bike ride yesterday but then was struck down by the trots and, apart from a quick foray to fetch my newspaper this morning, have been confined to barracks (i.e., near the campsite toilets) since. By the trots, by the way, I mean “stomach trouble” and not a crippling fear of Aussie fast bowling. Well, I seem to be healing now so I'm going to risk a nice meal of new potatoes, cod fillet and mushy peas, followed by some Rachel's Greek-style yoghurt with ginger. Mmmm. (I just made that horrible noise that Hannibal Lecter makes when he talks about eating someone's liver with fava beans).                                                     

 

Lincoln Castle

 

I'll go into the city again tomorrow and have a look at the cathedral and the river. Lincoln has more of a northern feel about it. The name comes from the Brythonic linn, meaning “pool”, the same derivation as Dublin (dubh linn, meaning black pool) from the Goidelic. The pool is the Brayford Pool in the centre of the city, part of the River Witham. Because of its commanding hill the Romans built a fort here and re-named it Lindum. Later, it became a retirement centre for legionaries whose term of service had expired, a colonia (presumably because the old soldiers all had dodgy colons). Hence Lincoln.

Now, here's a perfect illustration of local authority “culture”. Don't get me wrong, it's a nice site in a lovely location, the staff are friendly and helpful and it's all told really good value at £11 a night. I'm not whingeing. It's just an observation. When I got here I did the usual and filled the van's tank with drinking water. Except I couldn't, because the tap, which was made of plastic, had its thread stripped so that when I turned it on my hose was blown off by the pressure. We tried PTFE tape to no avail, so I had to drive over to the big house and fill up from the gardeners' outside tap. No problem, job done. The warden and I agreed that it was madness to use a plastic tap rather than the usual brass one. I offered to buy one when I went down the town, but the warden said we couldn't do that as he would need a purchase order. Also, he wasn't allowed any petty cash so he couldn't pay me anyway. The manager had an account card for B & Q, but she was on leave and he wasn't allowed to use it. The only thing he could do was to get the plumber to come in and replace it. Why not? The most expensive option. But four days later and it's still not fixed. A tap, just a tap.

The Magna Carta Tavern

One of the four extant copies of Magna Carta was found in Lincoln Cathedral and was on display here until recently. It regularly travels abroad as an exhibit. Next year is its 800th anniversary. It was the first attempt to moderate the absolute powers of the monarchy, and was precipitated by the general awfulness of King John. Stephen Langton, Archbishop of Canterbury, who was from near Lincoln, was its prime mover and should be regarded as one of the architects of the English constitution. As a reward he had a pub in Friday Street near Dorking named after him.  

Cycled into the city on my last day here, enlivened by heavy hailstorms. Glad I was wearing my cycling helmet. I walked up to the cathedral and the castle amongst crowds of tourists. The road up to the top is called “Steep Hill”; whoever named it, apart from clearly having won Mastermind specialising in stating the bleeding obvious, was never in danger of prosecution under the Trade Descriptions Act. I got to the top by taking a zigzag route along side-streets across the face of the hill. Well worth it. On the way back down I had to keep the brakes on the bike locked on to stop it running away from me. Not quite as steep as Croagh Patrick, though, whose ascent I miserably failed to complete.

Now, what is wrong with VW Camper people? Why are they so arrogant and unfriendly? (I know I'm generalising, but if you can't generalise you can't say anything.) Caravanners are, in the main, friendly people and we normally greet each other around the site and stop for a chat. VW Camper people, on the other hand, seem to think, because they are in cramped, uncomfortable, ludicrously over-priced vans that they should look down on sybaritic hoi polloi who lounge in cossetted conditions and watch TV. I had the great pleasure of seeing a VW driver ticked-off by the warden for over-staying his pitch and preventing a new arrival from taking it. Typical of these arrogant blighters. Wow, that was a good rant, I enjoyed that and it had been a long time coming.  

 

 

Lincoln Cathedral

 

7. Fishtoft
Private site
18th-19^th March

Yes, really, Fishtoft; it's just outside Boston. I decided to come here because it was a convenient stop on my way to my next significant visit, Lincoln.

I was a bit apprehensive as I had heard quite a few depressing things about Boston; the highest proportion of immigrants in the population in Britain (25%) (mostly eastern European and Portuguese); the highest proportion of clinically obese people in the country (one third of the population); the football club cooking the books; the town council (previously Labour) taken over by in its entirety by a one-issue party – The By-Pass for Boston Party (pity we don't have a Tea Party).

Luckily, I had a chat with a nice old Aussie-sounding bloke at Cromer. He was born and bred in Boston, went to Australia where he served in the Australian Navy for 35 years then returned to Boston (to see if anything had happened while he was away, presumably). He told me about famous Bostonians. George Bass who explored Australia and named the Bass Strait, Sir Joseph Banks, the naturalist who sailed with Captain Cook, Sir John Franklin, who explored Australia, survived Trafalgar and died when ice-bound on the Erebus while trying to find the North-West Passage and Matthew Flinders, who explored Australia and after whom the Flinders Range and Flinders University are named. He didn't tell me that John Motson(“Motty”) is from Boston.

He did, however, tell me about the Pilgrim Fathers. Fleeing religious persecution, in 1607 they tried to escape from Boston to the Netherlands. They were betrayed to the militia by the ship's captain and were imprisoned in the Guildhall in the town. The charge was leaving the country without the permission of the King (James I). They were released on bail and scarpered, eventually boarding The Mayflower at Plymouth after twelve years in the Netherlands. In those days they got excited about people leaving the country illegally.



Boston Stump from the Haven

The site, also, is a plus for Boston. It's basically in someone's back garden with only about 10 pitches, each one enclosed by a 6-foot high conifer hedge and not numbered but named after birds. I'm in “Wren”. Nice and cosy. The bus to town stops outside the front gate every half-hour, the last one back at 17:15, so I won't be tempted to sample the fleshpots of Boston.

The drive up from Thetford (75 miles) was pretty uneventful. After I left Brecklands, the countryside became very flat and the fields bigger and bigger and the hedges and trees fewer and fewer. Here, if you live in one village you can see the people in the next village putting their washing out. Churches are about the only landmarks. At Sutton, though, south of King's Lynn, is a smashing swing bridge over the Great Ouse. After that it's pretty boring, apart from a few fields of daffodils in bloom. The Boston Stump (the tower of St. Botolph's Church in the town) is, as they say, visible from a distance. Apparently from the top you can see Lincoln Cathedral, about 35 miles away. Shall I climb to the top tomorrow? See how the old legs feel. They seem to have survived the bike ride yesterday; in fact, no ill effects at all. Must get lost more often. 

I had expected to see gangs of European migrant workers toiling in the fields and singing Negro spirituals. Of course, it's the wrong time of year. Now, it's ploughing, harrowing and sowing, and all this can be done by one man and a John Deere. They've probably all been laid-off and have signed-on now until the season starts. No problem; the taxpayer will stump-up to save the millionaire farmers from having to pay their idle time.

Talking of millionaire farmers; I can see the ergonomic justification for grubbing-out the hedgerows between the fields to create vast, more efficient fields, but why destroy the hedges and trees lining the roads? If there weren't so many eastern Europeans here we wouldn't need to grow so many cabbages anyway.

Well, my trip to Boston was a real treat. It has two huge market places, joined by a narrow street, an impressive waterway, the Haven, through the middle and loads of very old streets and alleyways. It also has its own docks (I drove into them by mistake) and the Maud Foster Drain, another waterway on the eastern outskirts which looks just like a canal in Amsterdam and which has a working 5-sail windmill on it bank. Imagine having a drain named after you. Fame or what? At the landward end the Haven is stopped by the Great Sluice and turns into a very nice marina, thank you very much. There were two markets on the go and in the one in Wide Bargate there was a Dutch auction of assorted bric-a-brac and tat. I stopped myself from buying a set of Rosemary Conley scales for £1. According to the auctioneer they really worked. I had a delicious hot sausage roll in Shepherd's Bakers - “baking on this site for over 100 years” - where loads of old codgers were out the back tucking into a huge roast – on a Wednesday morning! I am now officially cured of my addiction to Gregg's sausage rolls, but where will I find another Shepherd's? Down a narrow alley I saw a pub sign for “The Indian Queen and Three Kings”. Intrigued by its name I investigated and the sign outside saying “Victorian Pub” clinched it. I managed to resist a pint of Bateman's XP and pushed the boat out with an orange juice and lemonade. The barman explained the name. Originally known as the Three Kings of Cologne, the pub has been rebuilt and renamed at least three times and is thought to be the oldest in Boston. The Three Kings of Cologne are better known to us as the Three Kings, as in “of orient are”; The Three Wise Men or Magi. The Shrine of the Three Kings is in Cologne Cathedral and is said to contain their bones. In the late Middle Ages Cologne was a major centre in the Hanseatic League with substantial trade with England. Boston was a port with a Hansa trading post. So merchants from Cologne would have been familiar in Boston. The old pub sign gave rise to the nickname “The Three Merry Devils” and was changed, in Puritan times, to “The Indian Queen”, referring to Pocahontas who supposedly saved the life of Sir John Smith, the Lincolnshire-born explorer. She married John Rolfe from nearby Heacham and used to pop in here for a pint and a game of darts (just kidding).

I went into St. Botolph's and snapped the Stump from inside, but strangely enough it doesn't look as tall close-to as it does from 20 miles away. It's what's known as a calendar church, because the roof is supported by 12 pillars, there are 52 windows, 7 doors and 365 steps up to the top of the tower, 24 steps to the library and 60 to the roof. I decided not to climb the Stump after learning there were 365 steps. After all, the view would just have been fields of cabbages anyway.

I remember watching Boston United with Nick Hallett in a horrible pub in Sydenham. I don't know why I did it, but I expect Nick made me. Boston were a fine big agricultural side (their playing style was called “The Boston Lump”) and were made to look even bigger by their strip – black and amber stripes, black shorts and black socks. A strip like that terrifies the opposition and is worth a goal start. (I'm convinced that their black and white stripes have kept Newcastle in the Premiership). I also remember Horsham Ramblers had an identical kit in the late 'Sixties. The trouble was that the shirts numbered 2 to 6 were huge and those numbered 7 to 11 were tiny. As a result, our big players wore defenders' shirts and our small players wore forwards' shirts. This had the advantage of confusing our opponents, because it was in the days before the Dutch invented total football. Our opponents were, therefore, both terrified and confused by us and it was no surprise when we were promoted. Well, of course, I was player-manager as well, but I won't mention that.

 

Until recently, Jason Lee was manager of Boston United; he used to have a pineapple on his head. Their ground is The Jakeman's Stadium, named after Jakeman's, the famous cough sweets made in Boston since 1907. These are the greatest cough sweets ever made and are available from Boot's for 60p a bag. This is not an advertisement, just my personal opinion.

The town definitely has the highest pub count I have seen so far on my travels. There were loads of really damaged looking people around and lots of fatties, but not that many and I think King's Lynn should demand a recount. OK it was Wednesday lunchtime and not 11:00 on a Saturday night, but the atmosphere was pleasant and relaxed and people I talked to were really friendly. I really liked it here. I was disappointed, though, that I didn't see a Boston Terrier.

 

 

 

6. Thetford Forest
C&CC Site
16th-17^th March

40 miles south-west down the A140 and A11 from Cromer, this is a lovely site in a clearing in the forest, which seems to belong to the Forestry Commission. This area is called “The Brecklands”, an area which spans 392 sq. miles/1015 sq. kilometres across Norfolk and Suffolk. It's one of the driest parts of Britain, a landscape of tranquil forest, mainly of Scots pine, gorse-covered heathland and agricultural land and is home to many unique or distinctive birds, plants and animals. Sunday was a warm, sunny day and after arriving at 12:30 I awarded myself half a day off to sit outside the van reading.

On Monday, I cycled into Thetford, about 8 miles, to get my shopping and to explore. I saw my first primroses of the year beside the road, always a uplifting sight. One reason for coming to Thetford was that it was used by the BBC to represent Walmington-on-Sea when they filmed “Dad's Army” and the surrounding Thetford Forest was used for the outdoor scenes. Another reason was that the toilet in the van is a “Thetford” and I wanted to honour it by visiting its home town. In fact, as I discovered later, the Thetford company has nothing to do with Thetford and comes from Ann Arbor, Michigan. Do your research first next time, Rog.

The town, of about 20,000 inhabitants, is quite a mixture, with pleasant narrow main streets, many attractive houses and buildings and a fine little Guildhall. The river Thet goes through the town and is very picturesque, with nice bridges and promenades. It looks almost more like a canal than a river. Sadly, something terrible happened in 1968. By the river, and at the bottom of the main street, is a monstrous concrete, 2 storey shopping centre called “Riverside”. Many of the shops are now closed and the open ones are not from the top drawer. The whole thing, overlooking such a beautiful river, is so horrifying that I was amazed to see a huge brass plaque celebrating its unveiling. Norwich Union Insurance and Lloyd’s Bank were the guilty partners in the development and, of course, Thetford Council got in on the act. Someone should tell these people; when you do something truly reprehensible, issue a flat denial or blame it on someone else; don't erect a plaque boasting about it.

 

    

                        Look - no bicycle tyre                                               Tom Paine

                                       

Thetford was the birthplace of Tom Paine, the first English trendy leftie. After taking up a post as an excise officer in Lewes (going round the pubs, dipping their beer barrels to check the strength of the beer, a bit like I used to do) he went a bit Tony Benn and had to leave the country for the New World. For services to the American Revolution he was given a farm in New York State and had a few nice peaceful years. Then the French became even more revolting than usual and he went to France to support them, writing his most famous polemic “The Rights of Man”. (He didn't ever, incidentally, get round to writing its sequel, “The Duties of Man”, which would have covered things like “don't spit in the street”, “don't mug blind pensioners”, “don't organise dog fights” and “don't jump queues”.) 

There's an imposing bronze of Paine outside the parish church. I would have taken a photo, but forgot to pack my camera this morning. Someone had hung a bicycle tyre round his neck. He should have stayed in France; at least they know how to have a revolution.

I subsequently learned from a friend in Ireland that Jeyes Fluid is made in Thetford. This is a wonder product and is the best cure for athlete's foot. Just dissolve a capful in a bowl of hot water and soak the feet. Itching gone! Miracle.

Strangely, Paine's grave site is unknown. He was originally buried in New York State, but William Cobbold, who did rural rides, disinterred him and brought his bones back to Britain as part of a campaign to re-legitimise him. Cobbold then promptly lost the bones!

A disaster of almost equal magnitude struck me on the way back. I took the wrong turn leaving Tesco and rode for 3 miles before realising that this road wasn't the one I had travelled the opposite way. I took the momentous decision not to turn back and six miles later was still pedalling, having seen not a single turning going in the direction I needed. In the end, I cycled a giant circle and, instead of 16 miles, cycled 25, 17 of them with both panniers heavily-laden with my food shopping. Now, someone I know will testify that one of my sayings is “Never go on a journey without a map”. Now I know why I always say it. The biter bit. Went to bed when I got home.

5. Near Cromer

     Private site

     12^th - 16^th March, 2014

This is a really lovely site, down a lane off the A140 Cromer to Norwich Road. It's in the centre of a piece of forestry which has just been felled and re-planted with mixed deciduous trees. It's a 15-minute walk to the bus stop which gets me into Cromer (to-day) and Norwich (tomorrow). It's also very reasonable for a private site at £14.50 a night.

Now, this leg is a bit of a pilgrimage for me. At Cromer is the Henry Blogg Museum, a celebration of “one of the bravest men who ever lived”. Blogg was the coxswain of the Cromer lifeboat. Read about him in the downloadable factsheet here:-

www.rnli.org/henryblogg

 

 

 

It was also the triumphant stage of Robert Marlowe, the man who was the subject of the greatest obituary ever written in the”Daily Telegraph” (or, I contend, any other publication). Find it at:-

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/obituaries/culture-obituaries/theatre-obituaries/9730554/Robert-Marlowe.html

Don't miss it!

 

So, it's farewell, then, Tony Benn. The death of a dinosaur, an already extinct species, an honest and principled politician. God know where his policies would have taken us had he ever achieved real power, but a least we knew exactly what he stood for and that he wasn't in politics for self-aggrandizement or as a career or as a way of lining his own pockets. He described Blair as “the worst leader Labour had ever had”. Rest in peace.

There was a dense fret or haar or whatever they a sea-mist here (a “sea-mist” I subsequently learned) when I reached Cromer. Standing on the promenade I couldn't see the beach below or the sea in front of me. So, I wandered the streets and became lost within 5 minutes. When I found the Tourist Information office, the town map was about the size of a postage stamp. How had I got lost here while sober? Easy; no right-angles, no straight lines.

                                                                                Cromer pier

Went for a stroll on the splendid sandy beach, complete with groynes (love that word). Much work on the sea-wall and promenade is in progress. So to the Henry Blogg Museum, which is virtually on the beach and which contains Blogg's old lifeboat, the “H.F.Bailey”. Amazing contrast between it and the current Cromer lifeboat which I saw later in the lifeboat station on the end of the pier.

Much work, also, on the pier, where they are renewing much of its decking. Had an interesting chat with one of the workmen, a young Welshman. They are using a West African hardwood called ekki, which needs no protection at all. Considering the battering it will get from salt-laden air that is astonishing.

The steps up to the entrance to the pier have on them, inlaid in brass, all the rescues made by the various Cromer lifeboats over many years up to date. Very impressive. Of course, I was interested in the Pavilion Theatre, the scene of Robert Marlowe's triumphs. Sadly, there is no plaque to him, but not surprising as there seems to have been a bit of a cloud over his retirement.

Cromer has an enormous flint-built parish church bang in its centre, so enormous, in fact, that it looks like an 'O' gauge model church set in a 'OO' gauge model town. A very nice touch, though, is that they have made flower beds around all the old gravestones and planted them with bedding annuals.

Stephen Fry worked as a waiter at the Hotel de Paris, pictured here. Unfortunately, I can't make the bloody photo come out the right way up, so you will just have to crane your neck.

 

On Friday, a 40-minute bus journey to Norwich. What a great city, really thriving, really alive, proudly the capital of East Anglia, with a cathedral, a castle, a buzzing street market, the BBC, Anglia TV, a fine river (the Wensum again, but a bit grander than it was at Fakenham), a huge central square, many impressive streets, most meeting at weird, sense-of-direction-defeating angles and with great names like “Rampant Horse Street” and “Little Goat Street” and “Great Goat Street”, the best hardware and tool shop I've seen since the bastards closed Messenger's in Guildford and the most amazing town hall, the Guildhall, the biggest, ugliest, Stalinist-Brutalist brick lump you could imagine. It must have absorbed the annual brick production of the whole of England when they built it. Still, nobody's perfect.

In Pottergate there's a blue plaque for Sarah Glover, who invented the tonic sol-fa (you know, do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do). I honestly can't remember now the point of it, but well done, Sarah, anyway, and it was a nice little house you had in Pottergate.

Saturday was spent mending the gas-locker on the van and watching three rugby matches in a row. The trouble is, the TV reception here is poor and any movement in the van disturbs the signal (the aerial is on the roof), which, being digital, takes ages to re-form the picture. So watching 3 rugby matches in a row meant trying to sit stock still for 4 and a half hours. Think I have become ossified.

Off tomorrow, but still in Norfolk. I have really enjoyed my stay here. I have enjoyed the places I have visited, the countryside is lovely and there are some beautiful villages. There's a relaxed feel to the place and the people seem good-natured and friendly. Yesterday, at Alby on the way to Norwich the bus driver announced:

“We are not going through Aylsham to-day, so if you want Aylsham you need to get off here, wait 10 minutes and catch the next bus.”

Nobody complained; six people traipsed off the bus looking slightly puzzled but chatting cheerfully. We were about to set off again when the driver announced again:

“Sorry about that, I got it wrong, we ARE going to Aylsham to-day.”

The whole bus collapsed with laughter. The six got back on, none of them complained, none of them looked anything less than thoroughly amused, and off we went again.

Just watching the Wales/Scotland match (poor Scotland, at one point it looked as if Wales might get 100 points) when the director cut to an Irish supporter (Ireland shirt, leprechaun ginger beard and hat) holding up a sign saying “I've been here three days and still haven't seen the Eiffel Tower”. That's another thing the English generously gave the Irish; self-deprecatory humour.

4. Fakenham Rececourse

    CC site
    8th-12^th March

Short drive (20 miles) here to what looks a very tidy site. Not actually a CC site, but affiliated (AS). The rate (£10.50) is good for an AS. Handsome new stand and the course looks in great shape, with lots of jumps all ready for next Friday's meeting. When there's a meeting on, any vans staying on site have to uproot and go to the middle of the course!

Fakenham Racecourse

 

Enjoyed the rugby, especially Brian O'Driscoll's last match in Ireland. A great send-off for him. The Irish and Welsh certainly know how to do heroes. Can't imagine an English player ever getting those accolades. Then again, which English player has been as charismatic, influential and just plain heroic? Jonny Wilkinson was two of those but hardly charismatic, very much a Roundhead to O'Driscoll's Cavalier.                                                                                            

 

Well, England duly battered the Welsh to defeat. Good performance, promising team, but still unable to turn their dominance in all areas of the game into points. They should have had it won by half-time. And does Dylan Hartley not know the flaming rules? It seemed that every time England laboured and brought forth a try or penalty, Hartley gave a penalty away to even things up and keep it exciting.

 

Central Cinema, Fakenham

Sunday here was, as forecast, sunny and warm. Monday not. Bitterly cold north wind (how can the wind go round 180 degrees in 12 hours?

Fakenham is very small and rather run-down, with many defunct shops and other businesses and a very high charity shop count. The river (the Wensum) is lovely and goes through a fine mill which is now a block of flats. There doesn't seem to be a pub in the centre, which is quite unusual. (Later found a pub near the centre, but it proved to be a Wetherspoon's, which accounts for the absence of other pubs). There is a nice old hotel, but closed, but there is a great old cinema. There is also an amazing new health centre, and I went there to get my meds for the month. It had 4 different waiting rooms, each one for 4 consulting rooms, which seems to suggest there are 16 doctors there. Can't be right, surely? Went slightly the wrong way to get there and had to climb over an earth bank and through a hedge to get into the car park. Got a bit muddy, but nobody saw and they treated me like a human being, not a total bearded cycling hedge-hopping muddy nutter like I felt.
 

While cycling to the centre, passed a pub called “The Henry IV”. Sadly, it was a “Hungry Horse”, what is now known as an “eatery”, I think, so not a proper pub at all. Never seen a pub named after him, but he must have been quite significant because, according to Shakespeare, he had two parts. So, I looked him up. First Lancastrian king, 1399-1413, his reign was characterised by rebellion and lawlessness. Possibly guilty of or at least complicit in the murder of his predecessor, Richard II. Ended his life as a chronic invalid and acute epileptic, he is buried at Canterbury. Mmmm, not many points for kingship by the sound of it, and why a pub in Fakenham?  

So, Tuesday, my last day at Fakenham. Sunny but a bitter wind again. Off to Wells-next-the-Sea on the bus. Beautiful but undramatic countryside. Rolling low hills, hedges, deciduous copses, flint villages. Mostly arable land but a few flocks of sheep. One of the villages is Walsingham, with its shrine of “Our Lady of Walsingham”. Small market square, narrow main street with many very impressive old houses, some half-timbered. Strange to see a Catholic shrine here in East Anglia, the heart of Non-Conformism. Must be relatively recent – Cromwell would never have let that survive in his backyard.

                              Wells-next the-Sea

Wells has a very interesting harbour , sheltered from the south-west, with a narrow main channel and extensive salt marshes, which are presumably submerged at high tide. Seems to be a thriving shell-fishing port. Walked out for a while along the Norfolk Coast Walk (“Hunstanton 23 miles” - no thanks).

(There's a mallard drake outside my door, looking in).

My van is backed-up against an evergreen hedge which surrounds a small wood of, I think, larch trees. There is a rookery in the trees and the birds make an enormous noise. Now and then all take off in a huge explosion of squawking and fluttering, just like those terrifying creatures in the film “Pitch Black” when the suns go down on their planet. Thankfully, these rooks are not man-eaters.

Some great accents here. I heard someone who sounded just like the Singing Postman and yesterday I was walking along and heard the voice of Mandy, my nephew Gareth's wife, from Exeter. Wrong, just one of two local ladies nattering. Strange how the accent from the far east of England is so similar to that of the far west. I had a very smart haircut in Fakenham in a barbers which proudly boasted it had been open on that site since 1920. There was a notice in the window saying the 80-year-old barber had retired, so I was sheared by a young lady with the weirdest accent I'd ever heard. She said she came from near Nottingham.

My God, I see Deadly Dave got his man. BBC News said Bob Crowe had died suddenly of a heart attack, but in the streets, bazaars and souks of north Norfolk the word is that some of the Russian oligarchs, tired of how the extra traffic caused by tube strikes had clogged the streets of the capital and prevented their armoured, black-out Range Rovers from reaching 70mph down the King's Road, had approached Dave and offered to take-out Bob in exchange for Dave getting their sons into Eton.

3. Sandringham

CC site

4^th - 8^th March

Arrived here at lunchtime on a cold but clear and sunny day. In a pine wood within the estate; quite a relief to see trees after my drive across the Fens where there were no trees or hedges, just muddy fields with black soil and ruler-straight waterways. Just outside Peterborough on the way to Whittlesey (“ancient market town”) a vast McCain factory. Imagine how many spuds go in there every day and have their lives totally changed. Then, just outside King's Lynn, an equally huge sugar beet factory, surrounded by mountains of beet.

So, here I am in the Queen's back garden. I popped over to see if she wanted any shopping done or the corgis taken for a walk, but she wasn't in. The flunkey said she had gone to the chiropodist in King's Lynn. Hope she knows the last bus back is 5:15.

Well, so far so good, very happy with the site. Bus stop just outside the front gate, with hourly buses to King's Lynn and Hunstanton. (Must find out if it really is pronounced “Hunston”).

Now, here's a thing. I've noticed that both my pairs of Irish trousers make it difficult to take a leak. You have to undo the belt and the top button before unzipping, and I don't like semi-undressing in public toilets. Could it be that Irish men have their tackle situated further north, nearer the navel, than the rest of us? Discuss.

The bus into King's Lynn goes via Castle Rising, a real chocolate-box village with a splendid castle. Cherry trees coming into bloom everywhere.

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now

Is hung with bloom along the bough,

And stands about the woodland ride

Wearing white for Eastertide.

Mixed feelings about the town. The old parts, King Street, the Tuesday Market Square and the Minster and the Saturday Market Square and the waterfront are lovely, but there is a truly scabrous new area (“The Vancouver Precinct) with every manky pound-type-shop, cash converter, nail bar and tattoo parlour imaginable and there are hoards of very damaged-looking people swarming around forcing food in their faces. This is definitely bull-terrier rather than West Highland White land.

 

                                                                            Castle Rising

 

The Great Ouse is just a broad, muddy, dead-straight treeless ditch as it makes it way to the Wash past the town. It has had its course changed many times and has been cleared and moved and dredged so many times it's more a man-made waterway than a river. It does a great job, though, keeping the land flood-free. Environment Agency, please note.

Why is it, by the way, that so many really fat girls insist on wearing lycra tights? They make a really soul-shuddering sight, especially when the shiny elephant legs are supplemented by orange faces and dyed-black hair. There are so many of them they must be trying to emulate a “look” or a celebrity's looks. Who could possibly want to look like this, a cross between an oompa loompa, a Bulgarian shot-putter and a female wrestler ? I remember when Nick Hallett and I talked about what we were going to do when we got really fat; we decided we would wear baggy voluminous robes, maybe kaftans like Demis Roussos. I'm sure these girls would be better to follow our lead.

 

 

                                                        Cottages in Castle Rising

 

 

Watched an old codger near me on the site driving his caravan with a caravan mover and a remote. This sight always fascinates me. I wish I could have invented the caravan mover. I would now have a satisfied mind. (For those of you who aren't caravanners, a caravan mover is an electric motor which sits on one of the caravan's wheels and can be used, in conjunction with a remote controller, to manoeuvre the caravan so you don't have to reverse it into its space or reverse your car on to its hitch in order to connect up and tow it away). It's an eerie sight the first time you see one used.

Just west of King's Lynn is the village of Clenchwarton, which is one of the 10 best entries in “The Meaning of Liff” written 30 years ago by my two favourite geniuses, Douglas Adams and John Lloyd:

“CLENCHWARTON (n. archaic)
One who assists an exorcist by squeezing whichever part of the possessed the exorcist deems useful.”

Must make sure I go past it when I leave Norfolk for Lincolnshire so I can photograph the road sign.

 

Nice Norfolk wall

Went into Hunstanton on Thursday, or at least I think I did, because there's so little there I wasn't sure I had arrived. Seriously, for “Hunstanton on a freezing day in March” read “Small English seaside town on a freezing day in March”. The bus trip, though, was lovely, through Dersingham, Snettisham and Heacham. The old buildings in this area are very handsome (and they are still building in this style), honey-coloured sandstone small rubble with red-brick facings, largely white window frames and Spanish-style red pantiles. One ordinary old barn was build in this way, with stepped Dutch gables at each end. Phenomenal! The trouble they took to make a barn pleasing to the eye!

In one of the many charity shops I found a fascinating book, “In search of Alan Gilzean”. Wonderful touch player, looked like an old minicab driver. I can still see him delicately flicking on headers to Jimmy Greaves to finish off. Tottenham late 'Sixties and early 'Seventies. The Beautiful Game. They used to sing “Gilzean, Gilzean, Gilzean, Gilzean, Born is the King of White Hart Lane” to the tune of “The First Noel”. Does it get any more sublime? He was the leading scorer for Dundee when they won the Scottish League in 1961-62 (in the days when it was worth winning) and when they reached the semi-final of the European Cup the following season. Together with Gilzean, Dundee provided Ian Ure to Manchester United and Arsenal and Charlie Cooke to Chelsea. Where are all the great Scottish footballers of the past, faded like the flowers of the forest.? Thank God, we'd never hear the end of it.

On the way to Hunstanton I saw some golfers. In the distance, with their trollies trailing behind them, they looked like early-model robots, you know, the ones with a sort of outrigger. I'm sure they're the ones who have been making the holes all over the site, not the rabbits at all.

Today (Friday) I'm going to take some exercise. I haven't been walking or cycling enough and the burden of guilt is unbearable. Trouble is, it's pouring with rain.

I forgot; in King's Lynn I saw that Clark's desert boots cost £85 now. My God! They must have appreciated out of step with the rest of inflation, because I always used to wear them when I was a young blood and I never had any money. Parka, denim Levi's, red socks and Clark's desert boots. I was very confused, because I used to dress like a Mod and ride a big motor-bike. I used to get beaten-up by everybody. Still do!

On the move to-day. New site beckoning, fine spring weather forecast, rugby on the TV this weekend. Ain't life grand?