Day 17: No crabs at Cromer

So far as I can make out The Fens are a scary place though their scariness was not evident to me as we set off to explore some well-known (to somebody but not to us, of course) places. A somewhat bizarre article in The Guardian (29 December 2010) entitled “Why a severe North Sea storm could spell disaster for the fens” says that modern farming methods and fen drainage have caused the land to shrink so much that what were once the beds of ancient rivers now stick up above the surrounding land.

As a result The Fens would be underwater were there to be a severe storm in the North Sea. The journalist says ,somewhat oddly, that this “would be classed as alarmist if published in a tabloid paper”. I thought that The Guardian was itself a tabloid paper. What he means is that it would be alarmist if it were published in The Sun or The Mirror. That it is published in a highbrow paper like The Guardian (always affectionately referred to by Private Eye as “The Grauniad”) removes all alarm.

Here is a picture of the Fens. This is, I gather, an avian paradise. It’s also pretty wet.

None of this was in our minds when we set off in the Volvo bus for a tour around selected fenland locations. Five of us set off: Peter Mac, Julian and Margaret, and The G and me. All five of us returned.

Peter and Helen had told us of crabs to be had at Cromer. The lure of a crab is more than mortal man can resist so we plugged Cromer into the Satnav and set off. Our route took us west through a place called Wicklewood. We passed a cemetery which was advertised as “a cemetery for our time: a woodland burial”. We thought this was odd. It was all top-of-mind because we had been skirting around the subject of death the previous evening. Julian recounted a tale of staff at a bus station referring to senior citizens who qualified for, and used, free bus passes as “coffin dodgers”. Since we were all (except I hasten to say The G but by a small margin) over 65 we were delighted to think of ourselves as coffin-dodgers.

I didn’t have time to photo the Wicklewood site but here is the Westall Park, Worcestershire natural burial site. You should get the picture: it’s not a bad idea.

I looked this place up later but I could not find it by my researches led to  a raft of references about “natural burials”. I found an ABC article which commented that “Australia has been pretty slow to adopt natural burial, but in the UK it's really taken off”. Natural burial means no headstone, no embalming, no fancy, furnished coffin, and no 'six feet under'. In the last 20 years or so more than 200 natural or 'woodland' burial sites have been established across the UK. So, now you know.

We skirted the edge of Norwich, home of mustard. The only sight of interest was Briar Chemicals, of which I had never heard. Its HQ is Sweet Briar Road, Norwich. I looked them up and found a 2014 Annual Report. They have revenues of about €1.5bn so they’re a decent size. They’re actually German-owned. Gosh that’s boring.

I think Norwich would have been worth a visit had we had time.

We didn’t see much of Norwich but we did note that its tagline advertised it as “a fine city”. We weren’t altogether sure what exactly was fine about it. Was it the weather? People have been there since Roman times so no doubt it has a proud history and no doubt some of it is interesting. You can look it up. It is important to note that 2012 Norwich was designated England's first UNESCO City of Literature. My friend The Wick tells me there are only 20 such cities worldwide. So that’s cool, really cool.

Because it’s all flat and pretty close to what the English are pleased to call “the Continent”, the Second World War saw the operation of a number of airfields. So it was not surprising to pass the City of Norwich Aviation Museum. This museum has a Vulcan XM612. I remember watching these planes when I was a boy in Portsmouth flying overhead (well, they’d have to be fling overhead). The first prototype flew in 1952 and they were retired in the early 80s. They seem to be sleek and cumbersome all in the same breath.

A Vulcan XM612.

We were all delighted to pass through Stratton Strawless, a name which we felt sure hid a tale of great excitement and interest. When I looked it up I discovered that the village was recorded in the Domesday Book. The “Stratton” derives from an old word that means farmhouse while the “strawless” is “an appellative from the poorness of the soil, producing little grain and less straw, but favourable to the production of timber”. But I am sure it was here that we saw a thatched bus stop.

As with everywhere in England (and the rest of the UK) interesting places are thick on the ground. We passed Felbrigg Hall which you will know is an unaltered 17th-century house noted for its Jacobean architecture and fine Georgian interior.

Felbrigg Hall. We could have gone here but we didn't.

The parish church of Saint Bartholomew in Hanworth dates from the 14th century and parts of the building date from an even earlier building. So it’s pretty old really. The church organ was built around 1865 by Father Henry Willis of the famous London organ builders. It originally cost £70 and is the only miniature Father Willis organ in Norfolk. Important stuff that: I had never heard of Father Henry Will so I dispute that he is “famous”. And I wonder how many organs of his there are in Norfolk.

Roughton church, St Mary's, is one of 124 existing round-tower churches in Norfolk. The tower is believed to be of Saxon origin. You might suppose that 124 examples mean this type of tower architecture is commonplace. Not so. There are only 185 surviving examples in the UK and they are found in areas lacking normal building stone, and are therefore built of knapped flint. Corners are difficult to construct in flint, hence the thick, round walls of the towers.

We thought that this round tower was unusual but it seems it's not.

The Cromer crab is a fine and noble crustacean. Cancer pagurus is its proper appellation. The World Register of Marine Species, affectionately acronymed (this is a made-up word) as WORMS, provides its complete taxon details. We had hoped an expected to find samples of this delectable delight on sale everywhere. We were wrong. The Chamber of Commerce website says rather hopefully that “Cromer [is] perched on the very edge of the north Norfolk coast, is famous for its tasty crabs, wide open beaches, a traditional pier complete with a theatre providing seaside special variety shows and is awash with small local independent shops”.

The Cromer Crab, a noble crustacean.

We closed in on Cromer through a hailstorm which had cleared by the time we got there. We set off in search of the famous crabs. We found ourselves at the seaside. We saw the pier and from our vantage point I can see why the Chamber of Commerce talks about perches. We could see the groynes on the beach. For we English folk this was no particularly strange sight but The G had never seen them before.

We did not find Cromer “awash” with small shops possibly because it was mid-February and they were all closed. Anyway I think that the word “awash” in this context is questionable; no doubt an overzealous marketing type was let loose on this piece of prose.

The Cromer crab we brought home
is a poor imitation of the real thing.

We eventually gave up on the crab hunt and settled into The Old Rock Shop Bistro which one review in TripAdvisor says has “good coffee but disappointing cake”. Pete was pissed off when he asked the dude behind the counter what was the soup of the day to be told that the answer was on the board behind him. What did it cost to just tell him? Too much we supposed. In the end the Old Rock Shop Bistro was rather good if not especially exciting. It was quite busy. Just two or three doors down the street was Peggoty’s which ranks #37 of 58 in TripAdvisor and is described as “cheap and cheerful”. It was completely empty. When we emerged from The Old Rock Shop Bistro a light February drizzle was falling so we decided to move on.

Julian had gone more than 3 hours without The Daily Telegraph crossword so Margaret was dispatched to buy a copy. She disappeared up the road in th erain while we loitered in the doorway of a local betting shop. The G and I went across the road to a souvenir shop and invested in a number of metallic Cromer crab fish magnets.

We drove out of Cromer on streets lined with late Victorian and Edwardian seaside houses of the type you see in many a seaside town in England. We entered caravan park city … I mean there were serried ranks of caravans almost as far as the eye could see.

Here is a static caravan park. This is clearly for people who like regimentation and order in their lives.

We drove along the coast and here we were rewarded by some stunning scenery. The rain cleared and a blue sky emerged. The landscape lost the drabness of winter and took on a much more inviting hue. You could see why hoards of people descend on Cromer each summer. It’s not probably because of the joys of Cromer but because the coastline is pretty. The beaches unfortunately are pebbly: no sand here. Just like when I was a boy in Portsmouth. It’s dreadful now but as a kid you seem to be able to walk on pebbles just fine.

We wended our way out of Cromer through West Runton, a place of no architectural merit that looked like an open prison, and passed through Weybourne. Weybourne has a handsome windmill which was built in 1850 and operated as a mill until 1916. There is a story here about subterfuge in the Second World War when suspicions arose in the village about the couple who lived at the mill. Rumour said that they were spying for the Germans. The man living in the mill was a Mr Dodds and his wife apparently had a strong foreign accent.

My Wikipedia source goes on: “One night two local policemen were walking down the lane from the old coastguard cottages towards the mill when they saw a light flashing from the top of the mill out towards sea. Apparently no action was taken - oddly, given the wartime conditions and the closeness to Weybourne Camp - but seemingly it bothered one of the policemen and he went back a couple of nights later and saw lights again. Some time later, Mrs Dodds left her bicycle unattended outside the tennis court. The bicycle fell over and a bag fell out of the basket. A local picked the bicycle up and then the bag. He took a look inside and found a radio transmitter. He told the police and a day or two later the authorities arrived and took the lady and her husband away”.

Well, you just never know, do you?

Weybourne Windmill where dastardly deeds were done.

As we drove on we could see a wind farm but this one was in the North Sea. We stopped at a pebbly beach and got out to look but, while the sky was clear, the wind was pretty chilly so, a befits a bunch of coffin-dodgers we got back in the car and pressed on.There is a limit to the excitement that the sight of an off-shore wind farm can offer the traveller.

There’s a wind farm in the sea. Did it escape there or was it built there? Perhaps you cannot see it: I do not know why all these sticks are there in the foreground.

Weybourne Windmill looking back from the coast. A lovely pair of fishing vessels in the foreground together with a tracked vehicle of uncertain vintage or operational readiness.

As we passed through Salthouse we observed what seems to be much evidence of wartime activity along the coast in the shape of large blocks of concrete lying around at random. I imagine that these were part of mighty defence installations and contributed to our winning the Battle of Britain and the war in general. What hands mixed and poured these concrete remains?

We stopped at Cley next the Sea (which we discovered is pronounced Cly). This was a interesting little place to wander around featuring, among other delights, a duckpond and the remains of an old (16^th Century) guildhall. Apparently Cley was once one of the busiest ports in England (hence, I suppose, the guildhall) but today its sleep 350 strong population belies any past activity. The G bought a trinket or two. Julian had retired with The Daily Telegraph to a nearby hostelry to do the crossword with the aid of the local brew. We joined him for tea and headed home.

A street scene in Cley next the Sea.

This is about as much excitement as old people can take. Take it from me. We headed for Swaffham but decided as we passed Little Snoring that we were also too tired for more driving and general hard work so we turned back to Peter and Helen’s. In fact the name of Little Snoring does not relate to the village’s somnambulistic capacities and capabilities. The “snoring” is derived from a past leader called “Snare”. There is also a Great Snoring.

We were booked for a valetudinary dinner at The Crown in Great Ellingham. Now, not many people know that The Crown used to be called The Bell and dates from the mid-1700s. Great Ellingham has a population of about 1,000 and apparently use to boast 6 pubs. This, I think, is less a testament of the bubulatory prowess of the old folks of Great Ellingham but rather an observation on the way Englsih village life has changed.

The Crown at Great Bellingham scene of the valetudinary dinner.

Today The Crown is what the Brits refer to as a “gastro-pub” like the Cromwell Arms we went to the other day. But whereas in days of yore you would be hard pushed to get a bag of crisps, the modern pub of today offers fine dining as well as a convivial atmosphere. We were a merry, if somewhat tired band of brothers and we enjoyed a fine meal but with the weight impending departure hanging over us.