Day 16: Friends reunited

Today we set of to Norfolk to stay with our friends Peter and Helen Scott. My other best friends Peter MacFarlane and Julian Dye (and his wife Margaret, to whom he has been married twice) will also be there. Pete’s wife Hilary will, unfortunately, be a no show. This is will be a major reunion as we have all known each other for 40 years or more. The last time we were together was at Peter Mac’s wedding in 1981 and there is a photograph of the four of us that I have seen within the last 2 or 3 years but I am buggered if I can find it now.

This is the bus we had. An interesting machine. There was nothing wrong with that getting a soul would not fix.

About a year ago Peter Mac had sent me an e-mail wondering if I was in Sydney as Peter and Helen would be there. I sent a note to Peter and Helen saying that if, on the off chance, they were mad enough to be driving between Melbourne and Sydney then they would pass our front door and that they should stay. This they did and that was the first time we had seen each other for about 35 years.

We’re not really that good, all of is, at catching up but we manage to stay in touch. We had stayed with Julian and Margaret on our 2012 trip. I have not seem Peter Mac since 2003. Before that I saw him in about 1992. But friendship is a strange thing and doesn’t depend upon regular reinforcement.

I have never properly been to Norfolk, or at least not to my recollection. I am pretty sure that I may have been to Norwich (where the mustard used to come from, but no more; Mr Coleman may have got rich by what you left on your plate but he’s not getting rich anymore in Norwich.)

I decided that our route should take us through Chatteris, then to Ely and then from there to Peter and Helen’s. They live near a village called Hingham described by our friend Wikipedia as “a market town and civil parish in the Forehoe district in the heart of rural Norfolk”.

“Why Chatteris?” you may ask. I will tell you. There is a song (see Youtube) called “For what is Chatteris” by a wonderful band called Half Man Half Biscuit. Here is a verse:

  One way system – smooth and commendable

  Go by bus – they’re highly dependable

  The swings in the park for the kids have won awards

  The clean streets acknowledged in the Lords

  But what’s a park if you can’t see a linnet?

  A timetable if your journey’s infinite?

  My bag’s packed and I’m leaving in a minute

  For what is Chatteris without you in it?

I cannot say what was the inspiration for the song; HMHB (as they are affectionately known) come from Birkenhead on Merseyside. It has a lovely tune and I had forgotten about it until I looked at the map to plan our route. It was about an hour of relatively dull driving along the A45 (or the a 45 as the satnav chick would have it) until we hit Huntingdon. Huntingdon is another place I have never been to. In fact, all I really know about Huntingdon is that it is on the A14 and, by golly, we left the A45 to join the A14 and that’s how we got to Huntingdon. Huntingdon has a long and interesting history: it was chartered by King John (he was the Magna Carta dude) in 1205 and it’s the birthplace in 1599 of Oliver Cromwell who was its MP. We didn’t stop but we seem to take the most circuitous diversion which completely confused Satnav, but we did eventually emerge triumphant onto the A141 which is the high road to Chatteris.

Chatteris proved to be a town that, assuming it had a light, was hiding it under a bushel. It’s an old town that was mentioned in the Domesday Book. There was a church (St Peter & St Paul is situated in the centre of the town. A church has been on the site since at least 1162, although the current tower dates from 1352) and a handsome war memorial to the fallen sons of Chatteris.

The war memorial at Chatteris.

Chatteris House. Must have been a rich dude's crib once upon a time. Now it's flats.

A street in Chatteris.As the song says "a market town that lacks quintessence".

We drove on from Chatteris the few miles to Ely. I had been to Ely about 25 years ago or so but I could recall little of it. It sports an interesting cathedral, though not to my mind up there with Salisbury or Winchester. Its walls are, to The G’s eye, satisfactorily devoid of the memorial clutter we saw in Westminster Abbey. Indeed the walls are almost devoid of memorials and those that there are seem to be memorials to the clerical great and good.

Ely Cathedral.

A quick shot up the tower.

A handsome organ.

The altar.

The cathedral is pretty old; there has been something on the site since the 7^th century but the present edifice dates from 1083, just a few years after the Norman Conquest. A few memorials did attract my attention. A verger is usually a layperson who assists in the ordering of religious services, particularly in Anglican churches. I saw four tablets in line abreast recoding, as I read left to right, increasingly impressive tours of duty.

I though 29 years as a verger was not a bad stint but then I read from left to right and ended up being more impressed by John Wallace Henry Southey who notched up 60 years.

There is also an brass memorial to George Basevi who was the cousin of Benjamin Disraeli. I mention this only because it is an obscure piece of information about Disraeli. Keen readers will recall that we found in Aylesbury a few days ago a statue of Disraeli.

George Basevi's brass in Ely Cathedral. He architected a bunch of buildings and he was an FRS. Of less importance is the fact that he was a cousin of Disraeli.

Ely itself is a pleasant town. The relevant authorities have decided to make it as interesting for tourists as they can by ensuring that no signpost is accurate. We followed signposts to the river (Ely is on the River Great Ouse) but we only found the river by asking. The main street sports a fine bottlo (or off-licence to our English friends). This is Anglia Wines (I could not find a website but there details are here). Inside you will find an excellent selection of wines and a very knowledgeable and pleasant fellow to tell you about them. We knew it was good as soon as we found a bottle of Battle of Bosworth’s (MacLaren Vale) Puritan Shiraz.

Back Lane in Ely. Scene, I am quite sure, of many an assignation.

The River Great Ouse. A great name for a great river.

A swan glides serenely passed a narrow boat on the Great Ouse.

The drive was a relatively easy one. From Ely we headed South to the A14 which then divides to become the A11 which heads North East to Thetford. I was now in uncharted territory for me. We passed a number of important places on the way.

Pidley, for all that it has an amusing name seems to be devoid of interest. Any Wikipedia entry for a village (for such it must be with a population for less than 400) that is more than half about the parish government arrangements cannot be anything other than dull. I am sure there are Pidlers out there who would disagree with this.

I have a simple and peculiar sense of humour so I made sure I remembered Prick Willow. Prick Willow is home to the Prick Willow Museum is housed in the old pumping station and contains a major collection of working pumping engines. I also read that it was “originally a small hamlet on the banks of the River Great Ouse, but [is] now on the banks of the River Lark since [the] re-organisation of the river system. I am not sure that I know how one would go about “reorganising” a river system. Does this mean that rivers were moved around?

As one approaches Thetford one is surprised by an impressive obelisk rising (I later discovered) to 127 feet. It satnds erect and alone at the side of the highway. There is nothing nearby, just the A11 buzzing with traffic.

Prickwillow telephone box 'blinged up' as Christmas bauble. Clearly we did well to avoid this place. Strange. Very strange.

It is exactly the sort of folly that an 18th century landlord with more money than sense would have built. But it is not 18th century. Elvesden Memorial is a memorial to those who served and died during World War One, the Great War - from three villages, Elveden, Eriswell, and Icklingham - located here, where the boundaries of the three parishes meet.

The Eleveden Memorial. Not a folly at all but a necessary and useful monument.

Peter had told us to set the satnav to take us to Hingham and then to put in the postcode. This we did but on our arrival at the postcode we were buggered if we could see their house. I called. Peter’s head appeared at a window not 20 metres away! We were right outside.

Greeting friends of old after having not seen them for a long time is always a wonderful experience. I had seen Peter Mac in 2009, Julian in 2012 (when we stayed with him) and Peter Scott when he stayed with is last year. We fellows are strange beings. Peter had got married in the 6 years since I had seen him but clearly did not think that this rated highly on the list of matters that needed to be reported to me (and he’s quite right). I cannot recall whether I told him that I got married, he may well have found that out fro Julian. We are not writers or talkers really.

Peter Mac. Unbeknown to me, husband and author.

But there was much hugging and greeting and within no time at all we were all enjoying a cleansing ale and doing what, for us, passes as catching up which is generally short bursts of conversation punctuated by longer periods of contemplation. Peter Scott and Helen had returned fro Cambodia only 48 hours previously so they must have been buggered but Helen still produced a fine spread. Thirty years ago we would have stayed up drinking for half the night. Thirty years on we were all in bed by 10 o’clock.