Postcard from Norfolk – Brancaster Beach

One of the best beaches in the world is Brancaster Beach in north Norfolk. It has a constant breeze blowing along it, meaning that it is beloved of kite flyers and kite surfers. This means there is always something to watch, the kites themselves if you like that sort of thing, or, even more entertaining, bickering couples trying to get their kites aloft in a truly world-class wind. The wind also ensures that any litter on the beach is heavy and, as such, can’t really be classed as litter at all. Crisp packets and other gossamer trash don’t stand a chance, being blown tumbling the length of the beach towards the sort of post codes where these things inevitably turn up (thinking about it, such a phenomenon could explain the multiplicity of aged and faded tat that I find in my front yard). The wind also blows sand-devils, making the beech at once eerie and fascinating.

For those that like value for money, this is the beach for you. When the tide is out you get a LOT of beach. On some days I’m pretty sure you could make it all the way to Holland by just rolling up your trousers.

I’ve been on the beach in summer, pitched a camp with windbreaks and sun-tents, folding chairs and rugs because when I go on holiday I like to take more kit than a reasonably funded Victorian era to the African interior, back when servants were cheap and tents were made of teak, ivory, canvas and came with panelled studies with stoves. In the summer the waves actually do come reasonably close to the seashore proper and for those of us used to visiting off season, the effect is slightly claustrophobic. The reason that the sea needs to be so near the beach of course is that it is obliged to make some child’s holiday complete by eroding the castle they have just spent the last three hours building, thereby handing out an important life lesson about the permanency of things.

The beach kiosk at Brancaster beach is so successful that it’s actually doubled in size. Possibly the accommodate improved kitchen facilities (BLTss recommended) and possibly to stock not just bucket and spades but small amounts of earthmoving equipment for children returning for a second year who have not forgotten last year’s erosion fiasco and have spent the intervening year studying drainage, levees and canal systems and are about to progress from castles to fortresses.

But the stand out attraction at Brancaster is Parking Bloke. The entrance to the car park is marked by a tiny caravan, which gently rocks in the wind. With the white coat of authority and a roll of tickets, he is one of the most charming features of the north Norfolk coast.

It costs a couple of quid to stay in the car park, no big deal. What’s most amusing though is seeing tourists pitch up in truly monstrous 4x4s and baulk at paying a couple of quid to park, pulling a U turn and zooming off in a cloud of indignation and planet-buggering pollution. What’s even funnier is checking out the faces of the blonde girlfriends up for a dirty weekend and their realisation that even though the bloke owns an expensive 4x4, he’s a cheapskate and is unlikely to lavish her with jewellery, ponies, holidays, cosmetic surgery and handbags.

Why do the 4x4s have to be in the car park at all? Why don’t they just park on the beach or somewhere in the tidal marshes. That way we could all laugh our arses off when the tide comes in and they discover that what they really, really need to cope with the off-road conditions of the north Norfolk coast is a boat.

Parking Bloke has seen it all. He’s in his little caravan in all weathers, rain or shine. My favourite experience – being instructed to avoid the top end of the car park, because that’s where the helicopter carrying the golfers playing the Royal Brancaster were arriving. From the gleam in his eye, I knew he was going to charge them for parking.