Back to Nature

Far from the madding crowd....

Sunrise over the North Sea, streaming across the extraordinary poppy fields that this year have coated north Norfolk in waving fields of blood.  

A little while before sun rise I just caught the moon going down, a tiny bright pinprick in the sky:

And then here comes the sun, and I say, "It's alright...."

It all happens so fast.  Daylight like a rising flash, a lightning, I find it all hard to believe, so I ask a passing skylark to take my pic from above:

And then he takes a speckled stutter of spatters without me (can you trust anyone these days?):

And that was last week. 

Yes, life is racing by.  Only a few weeks ago the cowslips were like a delicately quilted coverlet spread across the countryside.  

 

Then they gradually faded, seeping into beige and pale lemony green.  And then we had the poppies, fields and fields of them, filling the air with a dozy haze in the evening air while we walked.

Today I walk from my home to the north coast, some eight and half miles along lanes and footpaths, and the poppies are pale and fringed with age, their petals bruised with the flapping winds we have had in the last few days.....

And now they are being succeeded, by hawkweeds, or hawkbits, or common cat's-ears (please excuse my inexactitude; life is too short....)

So anyway.  I've been in the city.  I've had some slightly startling speedy heartbeats, and I am glad to be back in the fresh air, walking comfortably above the ground, fluttered by butterflies:

Two ringlets exchanging greetings

I am just off the Peddars' Way, only sixteen miles north of Castle Acre,

The landscape tells human stories.  Here a dry cereal crop leads you down to a red stone farm which lies just by the old railway line from Hunstanton to Fakenham.....

Here a shady oak frames a bucolic fold of hills with, though you cannot see it, a red kite trawling for worms.....

Then we have the hedgerows and wildflowers, exchanging their bodily fluids with the insects of the air to enable life, of all sorts, to go on.  Without this, you should know, we are all doomed....  Insect sex is everything we need....

A white-tailed bumblebee on knapweed

A six-spot Burnet moth on Knapweed

A six-spot Burnet moth on field scabious

A small white butterfly on bramble flowers

John Clare wrote:

Though simple to some I delight in the sight

Of such objects that bring unto me

A picture of picturesque joy and delight

Where beauty and harmony be

Oh I love at my heart to be strolling along

Oer the heath a new impulse to find

While I hum to the wind in a ballad or song

Some fancy that starts in the mind

All seems so delightful and bring to the mind

Such quiet and beautiful joys

That the mind when its weary like hermits may find

A retreat from earths folly and noise

The Heath

John Clare

I walk on.  Every day is new.  The shift from yellow to red to brown and so on is all part of the rich weft of colour that our world, when undisturbed, offers to the wanderer.  Seasonal.  Transitional. Always changing; always developing.  I am just perplexed by the rapidity of these changes.  

Don't read anything into these musings.  I breast the hill leading down to the coast and see,  distantly but clearly, Lincolnshire to one side, and a wind farm to the other.  As far as I can see there is life.  And life only.  

The foreground is filled with asparagus ferns, from the young plants that need to mature before they are harvested.  This is where I live, now.  This is beautiful.  I am happy to share it with you.....

Time flies by

In the blink of an eye

When you get paid for having too much fun

Kicking out the foot lights

Living the night life

Like tomorrow ain't never going to come

Wouldn't change much of nothing

About this road we've been running

For of wild times, wild women, and a song

But we would've taken much better care of ourselves

If we would have known we would live this long

Live This Long

Willie Nelson 

Merle Haggard

Nothing Beside Remains

 Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.....

The ruins of St James's Church, Bawsey

I'm not here to talk about current affairs, and I don't (usually) do politics..... It's almost precisely twelve months since we moved to Norfolk.  Tempus fxxxit, n'est-ce pas? And in that time how has the world crumbled? 

Castle Acre Priory

I mean, only the other day, I met a traveller from an antique land,

Who said to me - 

Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. . . . 

Really? I said,

Near them, on the sand, he said, 

Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Yes.....?  It does remind me of someone.....

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;

You know, I really don't wish to get involved in politics, if you don't mind.....

And on the pedestal, these words appear:

My name is Bozymandias, King of Kings;

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Nothing beside remains. 

Are you somehow being ambiguous? I asked.  I certainly do despair, but perhaps for the wrong reasons?  Is this the sort of place you had in mind?

Castle Rising

Well....  He said: Round the decay

Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Bozymandias 

Percy (Pfeffel) Shelley

St Margaret's Church, West Raynham

Which somehow made me think of that old joke; What's the difference between Henry VIII and Boris Johnson?

And? I hear you squeal.  They were both born catholics, had six wives (some mistake? Ed.), and destroyed the health service (perhaps not quite what the dissolution of the monasteries was meant to do, but I take your point, Ed.)....  What is the difference?

St Margaret's Church, West Raynham

Henry VIII didn't think he was Winston Churchill.....

That's not a joke!

Too right it isn't.....  Boom, bloody Boom!

Anyway, as I was saying, Norfolk is full of ruins, and I have come to feel at home in them (and around them.....)

Steam Trawler Sheraton, St Edmund's Point, Old Hunstanton

It isn't just churches, and castles. There are traces of past industry, like this decaying jetty at Snettisham, from which shingle was loaded onto transports to be taken across the Wash to Lincolnshire for the WW2 airfields....

And then there is this flag that hangs in All Saints, Burnham Thorpe, a memento of the violent death of Admiral Lord Nelson, who was born there, son of the Rector....

But decaying ruins abound. This is Baconsthorpe Castle, for two hundred years until 1650 the home of the Heydon family, (well known for their contributions to the Tory Party).....

And this is an image of the remains of Castle Acre Castle, a Norman fortress on a significant mound....

Not to be confused with Castle Rising castle, which, although Norman, was probably not designed as a building with a military, defensive nature, but which became the residence of  Queen Isabella, widow (and alleged murderess) of Edward II......

When all is said, and done, however, the majority of ruins around here had some religious significance.  One of the grandest was Castle Acre Priory.....

Though Walsingham, whose remains are slender, would have been a fine second best....

Perhaps especially as there was also a Priory in the neighbourhood (not to mention the Slipper Chapel and the pilgrimage centres).....

And, not surprisingly, there are lesser establishments, like St Mary's Friary at Burnham Norton.....

And the burnt out site of Creake Abbey.....

But perhaps my favourite is Binham Priory.....

Not only perhaps because of its fine, gently folding, rural setting, nor because the church is still maintained and active, the nave lit by high lancet windows, but perhaps because there is an automated cheese shop next door where one can acquire Mrs Catherine Temple's Binham Blue cheese (Norfolk's only cow's milk blue cheese) or  Norfolk Dapple (from Ferndale Farm), or Baron Bigod cheese (made by Fen Farm Dairy).....

Very very hard to better, whatever the season.....

So....  Henry VIII might have aspired to go down in history as one of the most charismatic rulers to sit on the English throne, but, and I hope you won't mind a brief quote from Wikipedia?  Domestically, Henry is known for his radical changes to the English Constitution, ushering in the theory of the divine right of kings. He also greatly expanded royal power during his reign. He frequently used charges of treason and heresy to quell dissent, and those accused were often executed without a formal trial..... He achieved many of his political aims through the work of his chief ministers, some of whom were banished or executed when they fell out of his favour.....

Henry was an extravagant spender, using the proceeds from the dissolution of the monasteries and acts of the Reformation Parliament. He also converted the money that was formerly paid Rome into royal revenue. Despite the money from these sources, he was continually on the verge of financial ruin due to his personal extravagance, especially in relation to refurbishment of his flat in Downing Street.....

Now I think there may have been a typo in that last sentence, but it is easy for the naive (aka me) to get confused between H8 and ABPJ (aka Bozymandias?)

Both seem to have had (and I deliberately use the past for the two of them) egos which suffocated reason. Both wished to consolidate power and to stifle opposition, eliminating rivals when necessary.  And both drew financial leverage from crafty schemes and dubious connections but still profligately overspent.....    

Both had Two vast and trunkless legs of stone, Both, at least in my imagination, had shattered visages, frowns, wrinkled lips, and sneers of cold command...... 

And, as if that wasn't enough, they presided over the destruction of institutions which (even if they might have needed reformation) contributed much good to society.....

(So here's one for that colossal wreck, Party Alex...)

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,

If the women don't get you, the liquor must......

Jelly Roll Morton

Oh, Didn't He Ramble?

Nothing beside remains

A Norfolk Rhapsody

 A Year in Norfolk

It is exactly a year since we agreed to buy our new home in Norfolk, leaving Hertfordshire after eighteen years and some, and uprooting ourselves to the wilds of East Anglia, where locals say we are cut off on three sides by the sea and on the fourth by British Rail.

Regrets?  I will always have some, though I know they are futile.  Every day is a point of no return, and there are three choices:  live in the past, in the infinitely expanded present, or in dreams of the future.

Watch the oyster catcher.  He does what he does, and that is it.  Muddy beak, bloodshot eyes and scraggy pink feet.  He is what he is.

Or watch, and hear, the straggling skeins of Pink-footed geese as they fly out of gunshot to and from their roosts on the Wash and its mudflats.  I love their plaintiff honkings as they encourage each other, flying over my house, east in the morning and west in the evening, sometimes in gusty winds, and sometimes in thick dark cloud.  It is a winter treat that gladdens my heart when much else is glum.

That Norfolk National Treasure, Stephen Fry, said of his home county, You either get Norfolk, with its wild roughness and uncultivated oddities, or you don't. It's not all soft and lovely. It doesn't ask to be loved.  I think he is right.  I have made friends with one or two uncultivated oddities, and I have grown to admire its wild roughness.  

To the best of my remembrance I first came here with a couple of friends around fifty years ago, but since then have returned time and time again, highlights including being a residential volunteer for the RSPB at Titchwell Marsh and Snettisham on two occasions.  It was at Snettisham that I saw my first tangle of Knots, crowding the sky at dusk as the tide drives them off the Wash and to roost in the lagoons:

And it is here that you can now see breeding Avocet, which became the symbol of the RSPB in recognition of the success of conservation initiatives after its return, in 1947, after 100 years of exile from these islands:

Norfolk is the fifth largest county in England, and the driest.  It has more than 150 deserted villages, and 659 medieval churches, of which 125 have round towers.  Its coastline is 100 miles long, and its highest point is 338 feet above sea level.  I live at about 20 metres above sea level, but Ken Hill, between me and the Wash, reaches 60 metres.....  King's Lynn, at the mouth of the Great Ouse, was a Hanseatic Port, and at one time was the third busiest trading port in the country.

Apart from churches, the county has some exceptionally fine ruins, such as Castle Rising:

Castle Acre Priory, 

Walsingham (the most popular pilgrimage site after Canterbury), and Binham Priory, of which the church remains intact:

throughout the seasons.....

Practically every village has its Hall, like this in Old Hunstanton, where the Le Strange family settled after the Norman Conquest, with still extant rights over the shoreline for as far as you could throw a spear:

The Le Strange dynasty has now ceased in name, but they created the resort of Hunstanton, and their heirs still hold extensive rights over properties and lands around here.....

Amanda and I, or Amanda and her carers, walk every day, pacing her progressive demise over this landscape, and along her shores.  Her shadow lengthens every day.....

In sunshine, and in cloud (such as here, at Holkham, where Gwyneth Paltrow walked - there walk we):

Sometimes we stop to admire a plant, such as this Sea Holly:

Or we might see a bright cock Linnet watching us:

Another day we might chase dragonflies:

Or perhaps stroke a wild pig (on Wild Ken Hill):

By and large there are fewer people around, out of season.  Our village has its share of holiday lets which burst their seams in the school holidays.  At other times there is a steady flow of grey tourists - bird watchers and dog walkers - but in general there is space.  No longer do we have to shrink into hedges to avoid being mown down by lycra-stripped dog-runners or two grand carbon fibre bikers ignoring footpath signs.....

Off season the beach huts at Wells-next-the-sea are padlocked and sad.  The houses on Snettisham Beach are mostly shuttered up:

And the Royal West Norfolk Golf Club (founded 1892) lacks its summery infection of red-corduroy trousers:

The beaches are full of empty shells......  not wholly unlike us:

The wide skies fill with birds - geese everywhere and kites here and there:

At Thornham the old coal shed is locked.  Here fuel supplies were brought in by wherry to shield the treeless locals from winter winds:

At Snettisham the jetty, from which shingle was ferried to Lincolnshire to make concrete for the bomber squadron airfields, slips slowly into the sea:

And as the layer cake cliffs of Hunstanton crumble into the sea at high tide the sun sinks over the distant fens.....

Going, going......

And at low tide there is nothing but mud and the temptation of King John's Jewels under a fuzzy grey sky  patrolled by squawking geese:

Norfolk has become our home.  Sadly Amanda is unable to communicate her feelings about this, but she has adapted and seems to enjoy our wanderings.  The variety of scenery, light and weather is stimulating and our home is comfortable.  We could not wish for much more....  Enough is, for us at least, enough......

So, for the moment at least, we will follow the rules, irrespective of from whosoever's  moral authority they emanate.

And I recommend you do likewise......

Happy Times!

*   *    *    *

And as a footnote, I found this.  I don't know David Callin (from the Isle  of Man), but would like to, and in the meantime hope he will not mind me reproducing this poem.  You can add your own pictures.....

Snettisham

by David Callin

This is the Wash it seems -

a last exhalation

of the dying land, or something

the sea's been working on

for ages: sketching it in,

rubbing it out,

redoing and redoing it,

never satisfied.

Look at you, all wrapped up,

hat and scarf and

gloves, and those wild eyes

made weak by medication

and hopes confounded so

so many times.

Never this thin before.

Going slowly, in this

flattest part of England,

going slowly downhill.

The birds rise

like a handful of rain

thrown upward,

and the Great Twitcher

in the sky misses

nothing. His fondness

for sparrows is well known.