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.