Today's photography

'Today' is a cornerstone of BBC Radio Four's morning programming. Billed as a news and current events programme it would also be fair to describe it as a retirement home for a certain type of irritable old journalist who, if they were a member of your family, would be the uncle who lives on his own, ruins Christmas every year by being so bloody miserable and only brings you joy at the moment when you realise that he is not in fact cumodgney yet loveable like some character in a Disney family feature, but is in fact a proper pain in the arse and hey, you don't have to invite him round again, ever.

The presenters on today have a reputation for being 'fierce'. This is because you cannot call broadcasters 'rude', even if that's what they are. In my house, they are referred to as 'the breakfast nutters' because of their amazing ability to get upset about inconsequential things, usually technology stories that are about making life easier for pets.

Because I'm a rational type I now restrain myself to simply turning the radio off in disgust about once a week, rather than tossing the thing out the window, which is probably a more proportionate response to some of the asinine opinions expressed.

It's not just news and interviews though, the show has a couple of hours to fill every morning and you can't do that just by being rude to politicians, although you can tell that the presenters would like to give it a damn good try. No, the show also seems to report on an alarming number of new surveys that reveal something or other about the spam buying habits of the great British public or something equally important, and medical stories about new cures for the sort of maladies that affect their listeners, like irritability and bouts of depression.

The behaviour of the presenters does perform the essential service of getting the heart rate of the listener up to anaerobic levels first thing in the morning, the way that usually only a really good alarm clock or an earthquake can. Carefully maintained, one can be in a simmering rage all day, lasting until it's time to uncork dinner.

One of the stories that caught my attention the other morning was an apparent growing trend in funeral photography.

Now, I thought that the only people that took photographs at funerals were either the police, looking to get some pictures of family villains for the files, or intrusive press photographers who know that grief sells, especially when it's somebody else's.

My first reaction was one of mystified spluttering indignation. What sort of person hires a photographer for a funeral? Obviously, I thought, this is an effect of celebrity culture. People see grieving celebs in magazines and, just like the red carpet, want to 'get the look'. But apparently not so. It's all down to people wanting to remember a day that, for most of them, passes in something of a blur. So the funeral photographer.


Even as I tee'd up a 'the world has gone mad' rant, they wheeled on some history professor from a provincial poly to explain that this is, in fact, simply a revival of a Victorian practice. That the Victorians used to have funereal photographs is not really that much of a surprise, they loved black, and plumes, and heavy wooden furniture and so were a natural society for really liking death. Somewhat like goths, but with rickets, a work ethic and a shocking taste for gin.

Indeed there was a gathering of goths in Whitby not long ago that had, as one of the events, a Victorian funeral. God knows I was a moody a teen as anyone but at least I had the good manners to confine myself to my bedroom and not hang around graveyards looking glum.

So funeral photography is nothing new, although the photos are now in colour. Problem is though, as everyone is dressed in black, who's going to know?

Goldsmiths

And from nothing, it starts. One moment the audience are fidgeting, the orchestra are making last minute adjustments to instrument, frock or trouser and then music, soaring and swirling around the auditorium and I am instantly reminded why classical music buffs spend a fortune on stereo equipment, it's because compared to a live orchestra, recorded music sounds like it's being played into a tin can with the listener on the other end of another can and a length of hairy string.

This was what I believe is termed an unfamiliar programme, in that none of the music would be familiar to those of us who get the classical music elements of our culture through the medium of television adverts or film scores. It does though mean that we had to apply our own images to the music, the film score of our imaginations.

Maybe the unexpected music is because the lights in the auditorium do not dim in advance of the performance. Neither there a warm up or an announcement. The conductor does not come out and scream 'hello you fuckers, are you ready to rock?' but merely strolls to his podium, faces away from the audience and motions with his baton, no doubt muttering 'expelaramous' under his breath. The only hint that choral music is imminent is a very serious voice telling us that recording and photography is forbidden. This is a shame because some of the livelier sections would have made a hell of a ring tone. The voice sounds suspiciously like that of Patrick Stewart, leading me to wonder if it's a recording they play or if this is what resting actors do. But if it was him surely he would have advised 'no recording, no photography, make it so'.

The London Symphony Orchestra and Goldsmith's Choral Union are at the Royal Festival Hall to perform their Autumn show. The programme is Brahms and Strauss and it's the real deal, with Swedish sopranos and a selection of German requiems that promises to be good, if short on laughs.

And the performance is good. However, some sort of classical music etiquette dictates that nobody applauds between movements. If throat clearing was a sign of approval though, then the singers and musicians can assure themselves that they are either doing a great job, or that there is a coach party in from the local chest clinic.

The first half of the programme, known in live performance circles as the countdown to a gin and tonic, features the orchestra and the soprano. The choir sit in their balcony and I'm not sure if they are disciplined, or sulking. The architecture and design of the Royal Festival Hall is such that the choir balcony, sat above the main sage, looks for all the world like a giant's version of the set up on 'University Challenge'. Among the soaring strings and blatting brass, one almost expects to hear a buzzer and a voice intoning 'Goldmith's, Jones' at the conclusion of the longest music round in the world.

Consultation of the programme and scrutiny of the soprano on stage lead one to believe that either her publicity shot was taken some years ago, or the soprano on stage has eaten the one pictured in the programme, along with a lot of cake. Possibly this explains why the singer has gone with a close up headshot for the portrait, as a photograph revealing dress may also reveal vintage. Nothing like a photograph of somebody in a rah rah skirt and a 'choose life' tee shirt to prompt the uncharitable conclusion that the years have not been kind.

Large as the soprano was, the orchestra was larger. But even with the stage full of folk in evening dress, there was still room for members of the orchestra to stash spare instruments by the sides of their seats. Like the chap sitting next to his spare bassoon. No denying it, he had an emergency bassoon, what sort of event was he anticipating where he's going to have to switch to a back up bassoon? At least the presence of two harps was explained by the presence of two harpists, although the effect was somewhat spoiled by their playing the same notes at the same time. Maybe that was what was in the score but how often do you get two harpists and two harps together? Sod the score, we want duelling' harps! On seeing the harps I did wonder what we were in for? One harp is intimidating enough, two were disquieting. The things are as tall as a person and carved out of solid wood, with a wee harpist standing next to them they looked like medieval siege engines.

Another intimidating instrument was a tuba with what appeared to be a huge cork in it. I am assuming it's some sort of muffler intended to turn the normal fog horn effect of everyone's favourite collection of brass and valves into a sigh, but it rather looked as if the tuba player had taken himself down the musical equivalent of Halfords for a mod kit for the thing. Pimp my horn.

The harpists and tuba player were, however, innocents compared to the timpanist. According to the programme notes duding the premier of the piece the choir was drowned out by an over enthusiastic timpanist and the look this guy gave the audience indicated he knew we knew and who knew? tonight might just be the night for history repeating. While he didn't drown out the choir he was bloody loud and played like a man who seethed that this and 'bolero' were the only times he got to strut his stuff.

All this though, was as nothing compared to the palpable sense of apprehension that seized me when the organist took his seat. I was sitting twenty rows back and even I could see the huge 'vox die' stop that he was eyeing with relish. Any instrument that comes with rear view mirrors, and is traditionally played by mad scientists, has to be taken seriously.

It was, of course, stunning. A professional orchestra, a full choir and a programme that went from pieces that described perfectly in music the fall of an autumn leaf to a choral celebration of life. The fact remains though that however you look at it, it's two hours of being shouted at in German.

Norfolk notes - quiz

Were you paying attention? It's the quiz.

Q1 what was the favourite drink on holiday?
A. Posh coffee.
B. Champers.
C. Flask tea.
D. Any one that is bought for me, I'm not fussy.

Q2 what do we call the people who congregate on Cley beach?

A. Twitchers.
B. Tweeters.
C. Twatters.
D. Sex people

Q3 what was the favourite food on holiday?

A. This:


B. This:


C. This:


D. Or this:


Q4 how worrying is it that I've started blogging about toilets?

A. Very worrying indeed.
B. Not a problem, it's just another aspect of life.
C. It's not the blogging that worries me, it's the photographs.
D. You should be more worried about how fixated you seem to be about car park charges.

Norfolk notes - Holkham Hall

Holkham Hall is a large stately home. You don't get to own, and hold on to, a stately home these days unless you know a thing or two about business and it appears that they have finally got wise to people parking and having a picnic, enjoying the grounds and the view and even the benches, all for free.

So they have introduced a parking fee, cheekily redeemable at their shop or cafe. This means that having stumped up for parking you feel compelled to get value for money by blowing even more cash on coffee. Not this chap, I had my flask tea and was bloody well going to enjoy the view sitting on the...the bastards have removed the benches! There's nowhere to sit. Well, apart from in the rental car, obviously, putting down the middle seats to form a table and essentially having quite a passable dining experience.

But my plan next time is to turn up with the full pic nic rig. Chairs, folding table, hot and cold dishes, butler, the works. Well worth a couple of quid.

Actually I shouldn't gripe as they've reduced the cost of parking on the beach. The problem is that Holkham Beach is now the home of what can only be described as quite a lot of marshy type weed near the shore. And because it's probably protected or endangered then they can't just get rid of the stuff. So you have to detour around or squelch through it to get to the pristine beach...or walk from Wells, as we did one day.

One unlucky tourist wasn't walking anywhere. While we strolled a coastguard 4x4 retrieved a woman who had twisted her ankle. What surprised me was how precious the driver of the emergency vehicle was about getting his truck up the beach.


Maybe the beach buggers suspensions as efficiently as it does ankles, or maybe it was a new truck but you would rather hope that he would scream along the surf line and do one of those handbreak turn stops that shower onlookers with sand. The whole experience was like an incredibly crap version of Baywatch.

Norfolk notes - Hunstanton

Hunstanton prides itself on being a proper seaside town. It ticks all the boxes; slightly seedy, near the sea, large number of pensioners and seagulls that will engage you in a life and death struggle for your chips. It also has tat shops. Rather, because of the size of Hunstanton, it has tat emporiums. There's a shop on the front that sells everything from post cards to high-vis anoraks and, of course, comes with the requisite surly staff.

Hunstanton's claim to fame is that it faces west. Hence, you can watch the sunset from the cliff tops. Now, you have to admire any town that makes a virtue out of a sunset, something that most of us can appreciate simply by turning ourselves in the right direction.

Hunstanton has tat shops, arcades, amusements and a theatre. It also has a joke an novelty shop with a sign up saying 'no photographs'. This is obviously to discourage the sort of people who can spend hours trying on funny hats, laughing themselves sick, take a photo and then bugger off without buying so much as a fake dog poo. I guess the owner has a point, it must be difficult enough trying to make a living selling novelty faeces without some joker accidentally sneezing inside your best masks and then discreetly replacing them.

Out of season, the place has a particular charm. The bright colours fade to pastels and the whole town is a lot gentler, if somewhat sadder. Luckily the ice-cream place was still open leading me to discover that all I need to lift me from melancholy is a magnum lolly.

Old Hunstanton is the neighbouring town, so close that the two actually run into one another but, thanks to that 'Old', is a world away. Old Hunstanton is so called because, I suspect, the folks there saw what Hunstanton was turning itself into and wanted to make sure that they had quite a different identity thank you very much, like a prim sister who sees her sibling becoming a star by the simple acquisition of bumps and pumped up bits added to nature, who decides to change her name because she feels just that little bit ashamed of her.

The irony is that thanks to its fantastic beach and amazing cliffs, Old Hunstanton is astonishingly hip. This, you see, is where the kite boarders and paragliders come to play. While the kite surfers rule the waves at Brancaster, here at Hunstanton it's their dry land equivalents who carve endless loops, swirls and curves in the pristine sand, or occasionally have a moment of excitement with a close encounter with a sea defence.

The paragliders were indeed out playing. One chap was just taking his first solo steps, launching from a sand dune and floating about a foot off the ground before coming gently to earth before reversing back up the dune and repeating the process.


It looked a little odd to see somebody apparently content to spend upwards of an hour basically suspended a foot off the ground, all that gear must cost a fortune and you can achieve the same effect with a step ladder. But I guess the point is that practice makes perfect and you don't want to be two hundred feet up when your kite wing folds for the first time. That's when knowing how to speed dial an ambulance as you plummet to earth comes in handy.


The other chap, who was floating high and free, was obviously having a great time and was obliging in that when he saw the camera raised he would swoop and soar, essentially strutting his stuff on thin air. It led me to wonder if these people frequent photo social networking sites, scouring and searching for images of themselves in action? I assume that they must pop up in the background of thousands of holiday photographs, the same way that commuters piling out of the train stations in London must feature in a million snapshots that tourists pour over, maybe never noticing that they are the only people in a crowd of thousands smiling.

Norfolk notes - drink

Hydration is important. Normally in England in October one can rely on the elements to try and hydrate you as often as possible, whether you want it or not. But as a family that cannot function without constant supplies of tea, this was the holiday where the thermos flask, and flask tea in particular, came into it's own.

Flask tea is a very particular brew. You can make up your tea however you choose, brew in a pot and decant to a flask, adding the milk on site later separately, or add the milk to the flask and save yourself the hassle. Or just take boiling water in the flask and take the tea bags and the milk separately. It doesn't matter, because once anything from a flask enters a cup; that cup contains flask tea. It's like alchemy, with tea.

The taste is unique. I could describe it as being the result of the thermos flask needing to be sealed and hence depriving the tea of oxygen, or being the result of some sort of in-flask brewing or fermenting process, but the reality is that it's probably the result of not washing out the thermos flask as often or as thoroughly as one should. What makes flask tea taste like flask tea is probably the ghost of soup. That, the tannins and quite a few molecules of metal from the interior of the flask.

It also tastes different because it's served outdoors. Those cowboy movies where they all sit round a camp fire that has a pot of coffee brewing on it, that's flask tea. It's the taste of freedom, of independence and, most of all, tea.

Tea's poor relation, coffee, also got a look in. Oddly, we'd walk on the beach and then have some tea to give us the energy to go somewhere for a coffee. While tea is drunk out of a flask, coffee is taken in pubs or bars or coffee shops because it's hard to reproduce a really good latte from a flask and a cuppachino is impossible because the chocolate sprinkles melt in transit. Having a posh (bought) coffee was not just a treat, it washed the taste of the damn flask tea out of our mouths.

Because I was driving the wagon, I was on it as well and so was denied my normal lunchtime tipple of six pints of whatever has the most interesting decoration on the pump handle. This did not stop others developing a taste for a lunchtime glass of champagne as a reasonable option to a latte. Champagne served by the glass is the sign of a civilised society. It's the perfect lunchtime alternative to coffee in that it is refreshing after a morning's walk, but it won't keep you awake all afternoon.

It also means it's somewhat difficult to make the transition back to work following the holiday. As one stares at a paper cup full of, probably quite decent, coffee, one cannot help feeling a little short changed that it's not a flute of a bubbling beverage that one can describe as 'biscuity'.

Norfolk notes - the Golden Cludgie

A posh pub toilet. Note serious portraits of mildly disapproving chaps, to make sure you don't get up to any funny business.

Seaside toilets are usually pretty basic. Let's face it, they have to be. Not only are they designed to resist all the normal perils of public convinces, such as regular use by members of the public, many on whom have a diet that is best described as 'harrowing' and of course serving as meeting places for those who are slaves to forbidden love (actually there's not much that's actually forbidden these days so it's actually quite romantic to think of homosexualists taking the time and effort to bum each other in an uncomfortable location rather than meet in some lovely boutique B&B somewhere), but in addition they have to resist the winds and elements that assail them from the outside.

When you think about it it's a wonder that seaside loos exist at all, a council would be quite justified in just providing a shovel and a sign pointing to a location on the beach below the high tide line.

The loos at Brancaster beach could be described as either 'basic', 'grim' or 'an affront' depending on what your expectations of a loo are. Suffice to say there are no little chaps ready with a towel and a squirt of cologne lurking here. There is a sign that advises wind surfers not to get changed in the loos but frankly they appear to have come to the decision themselves that peeling off a wetsuit in the car park in full view of everyone is less traumatic than walking into the gloomy loos with bare feet. It's the sort of place one visits with elbows in, trying not to make contact with anything.

The loos at Old Hunstanton are somewhat better.


Clean, light and airy they still preserve a seaside charm by having small mounds of sand from the beach piled up in the corners.

Away from the public eye, the loo in the Crown in Wells has soap so posh that I can't afford it at home. Another Flying Kiwi inn, the Ship at Brancaster, has a hand basin that is essentially a horse trough.



This is an attempt to capture a rustic, ancient feel; something effortlessly achieved at the public loos on the beach at Brancaster through the simple application of use, abuse and a total absence of bleach and fresh paint.

But the award for this year's Golden Cludgie, that is, the most outstanding loo visited this trip, goes to the ladies' loo at the Hoste Arms. Despite access being via a flight of stairs so steep that you expect the provision of a funicular or at least a guide to rope on to, and despite the lavish provision of the ladies being at the expense of sacrifices of space in the gents, this triumph of marble and alabaster has it all - a huge vase of lilies on a free standing table in the centre of the room, stools in front of a huge, well lit mirror and counter for adjusting hair and make up and a collection of toiletries that would put a clean freak to shame. It certainly had the wow factor, as in: 'wow! I can't believe that anyone I know would actually make a point of hissing 'take a look at this!' and then holding the door to a ladies' loo ajar for me to gawp'. This is the sort of situation that leads to either farcical hilarity when performed by a touring rep company on the stage of a provincial theatre, or a court appearance and having your name top of the list of the sex offenders register.

Norfolk notes - Holt

Holt is a pretty Georgian town about ten minutes drive inland. It's got a vet, which was useful if you want to spend eighty quid on eye drops for your dog because the stupid hound decides to stick it's face in muddy puddles. It's got a nice car park where you can wait for the AA man because you have picked up a flat tyre on your rental and changing the tyre on one of these things is a job for the professionals. It's got what is probably the worst coffee shop in the world, and I'm staggered it's still in business. It's got some pretty shops, like the furniture shop with the resident greyhound, Basil, and the Christmas shop open all year round.

Its also got a proper gentleman's outfitter. The small shop is a proper Aladdin's cave of outdoor gear, everything from the sort of traditional tweed jackets that are hedge proof and probably bomb proof, to the latest Gore Tex anorak type thing that would see you safely up and down a Hymalaya, or if necessary to the pub, as occasion demands. Just looking at all that gear makes one want to tog up and go and slaughter wildlife.

Norfolk notes - food

Norfolk, which for so long had a reputation for inbreeding and not producing many mountaineers, now has a reputation for food. The great thing is that you can see so much of it, either eyeing you with mild curiosity from a field, or lying in an mussel bed, blissfully unaware of the existence of garlic. Norfolk is where you come if you want good food, be it fancy dining with proper cutlery and a large selection of glasses for the many wines that will come with the food, or from a roadside stall where you have to brush the dirt from your parsnips before cooking them.

Morston Hall is one of the fanciest restaurants on the coast, it must be posh because the owner is on television, but not over exposed. He has a cook book or two but as all the recipes probably start with 'begin with a young and tireless kitchen staff of no less than a dozen people' I'm not confident that I would be able to adapt to my style of cooking, which rather concentrates on mastering the right defrost setting on the microwave.

But dinner at Morston Hall is an event, and tremendous fun. There's one sitting and one menu, and they suggest what wine you want with it. It's even easier than setting the microwave. I understand that there are two vegetarian options; you can leave by either the front or back door.

The food was sublime, with the starter, pan-fried foai gras (spelling?) on a strip of duck breast with a red wine reduction sauce. What I loved about it, even more than the idea that some genius has at last produced red wine in a handy sauce form that will enliven any meal (fish fingers, bacon butties, all taste better with a red wine sauce), was that somebody thought that foai gras wasn't rich enough. No, what it really needs is to be pan-fried!

Each course was brought to the table by the excellent waiting staff, who then cleared their throat and began; 'so...' and then described the course. This was great, a mini lecture about my food. It was done with such charm that it actually added a lot to the experience.

So much so that it became a feature of the rest of the holiday. Every pic nice began with the ritual unscrewing of the top of the thermos flask and then one of us intoning; 'so...what we have here is a cheese sandwich on white bread, served with a garnish of crinkle cut salt and vinegar flavoured crisps, and to accompany we have flask tea. The tea has been marinading in the flask for about three hours now and should have that special flask tang, tannin with just a hint of alloy. Enjoy!'.

Actually, when you are cooking for others it's not a bad idea to tell them what they're having. I cooked for the family in the evening not just because it meant I could spend an hour on my own in the kitchen getting outside a bottle of decent red before dinner, but also because it relaxes me, it's a nice transition from spending the day walking on a beach and an evening poking the log fire. But it did mean that I was serving up meals that my family had not seen prepared and in retrospect they did ask every evening what was in it. Not because they don't trust me (I hope) but because they were curious. Next time, I shall start with 'so...' while serving up. This is especially important with guests, because if you are able to get to the word 'peanut' before one of your guests swells like a balloon and goes into anaphylactic shock, it can be as much a contribution to the success of the evening as choosing between Dido and Sade as background music.

The best fish and chips in Norfolk, and hence the best fish and chips in the world, is still French's. The fish comes off the boats bobbing a few feet from the front door of the shop and the potatoes probably come from the fields surrounding the area. The freshness must be the secret of the success, either that or they put just the right amount of heroin in the batter. Certainly there's nothing quite like eating fish and chips watching the boats that landed the catch at anchor a few feet away.

Because I'm that sort of person, I couldn't resist taking a photograph of the dish to immortalise it.


But then again what's so terribly wrong about that? Many a house has a still life of a bowl of fruit or a distressed looking game bird hanging over the mantle, so why not a fine study of fish and chips? There are, after al, people who earn a living taking photographs of food for magazines and recipe books. While this may not be as noble as, say, wildlife photography or as important as war photography, it is at least several rungs on the self respect ladder above 'food stylist', that is, the people who are essentially food fluffers. You may be able to do this and keep your self-respect, just, but I think the toughest job of all must be for the menus in fast food joints, where above the counter you can see deliciously plump burgers and crisp golden fries. Compare this with the actual contents of a styrofoam container when opened and you have a sense of disappointment and shock not normally encountered outside a screening of 'the crying game'.


One can also smile wryly at the van parked on the quay bearing the slogan 'DEFRA sucks, but they ain't fishermans friends'. A typically English protest about fishing quotas, a humorous dig at a notably crap government department. If this was France the van would be filled with petrol soaked goat shit, set on fire and driven into the lobby of the department's offices. As it's England the van is used to transport fish and crabs. The slogan used to be hand painted on the side of a van and it's good to see that when the bloke who owns the van traded up, he not only kept the slogan but got a professional sign writer to paint it. That's commitment.


Foodie find of the holiday was The Feathers at Holt. A sprawling pub, restaurant and hotel, it manages to hang on to it's charm by comprising of a warren of rooms and corridors and having the public bar on a couple of levels, the lower half for the drinkers for ease of access, the upper half for the diners who want to have something to soak up the alcohol. Lots of well done pub grub on the menu, the sort of traditional stuff you'd expect to see but also some surprises - like the cod in lime and tequila sauce that was sensational. Nothing quite like the simple addition of strong liquor to lift a fish out of the realms of the ordinary.

Norfolk notes - pubs and wi-fi

One of the things about getting away from it all is that it's good to be able to check up on what the all is that you're getting away from in order to ensure that you're not missing anything. That is what the Internet is for, well, that and porn obviously. In an area renowned for it's eccentric mobile phone signal reception and love of analog broadcasting (the electronics shop in Sheringham has a sign up proudly announcing that the area can now get digital radio, and I can just imagine the excitement of anyone forking out a hundred quid for a new radio, tuning into BBC radio 7 and getting a vintage episode of 'Hancock's half hour') the best tactic is to find a wi fi hot spot and ponce off their broadband.

And if pubs are the most frequent provers of that service, then so much the better. The excellent Crown at Wells and the equally excellent Ship at Brancaster both do excellent coffee and first rate broadband. Of course, one goes to a pub to converse and interact, but it's good to be able to check out the rugby scores too, not to mention research local attractions and use the weather forecast to work out how to spend the day tomorrow - although walk the dog on the beach, picnic, coffee then back to the cottage for dinner sounds like a safe bet.

The Crown at Wells has long been a firm favourite and so we wanted to check out the newly acquired and refurbished Ship Inn, at Brancaster, part of the same chain. This too was excellent, warm and friendly with just the right amount of quirk. It also had quite the best sink in the gents' loo I've ever seen - a solid slab of stone that had a trough carved out of it. The tap at one end released a stream of water that ran along the length to the plug at at the other, like a very small, slightly soapy stream.

And the rooms are called 'cabins', how wonderful is that? One could spend the entire stay talking like a pirate, ordering grog and making numerous references to the 'poop deck'.

Norfolk notes - The Coast Hopper and other roadside advertising

The long ribbon of coastline that runs from Hunstanton in the West to Cromer in the East is well serviced by the busses that run back and forth along it, stopping at the villages, hamlets and occasionally just apparently hedges that dot the route.

There was, on this trip, ample opportunity to check out the front of the busses, usually when trying to squeeze round one at a coast road pinch point like Stiffkey, where one focusses very hard indeed upon the front of the bus currently just inches from your front bumper. Unusually for busses, there was not that much of an opportunity to check out the back of the vehicle, as the drivers subscribe to the 'foot down' school of motoring.

What I first took to be commercial advertising on the front of the bus, or even the name of the vehicle, was in fact tourist advertising. Just a couple of words and a sentence about some local attraction, personality or legend. The moment of realisation came when, after considering that Thomas Coke may well be a firm of Cromer Solicitors, it's unlikely that any such organisation might decide to call themselves 'Black Schuck' (the phantom dog of the fens). Also good to see devilish folklore making it's way onto public transport.

The coast road was actually a rich source of entertainment, and not just in terms of wildly swerving to avoid the twitchers that seemed to lurk in every hedge and thicket. Apart from walkers there are lots of things at the roadside, not just the roadkill that, depending on how 'successful' it have been in its attempts to cross, are near the centre of the road rather than at the side. No doubt some wag will compile a roadkill spotters book with different points depending on how exotic the creature concerned was, with bonus points for artistic impression or, to give it it's technical name, splash pattern.

As well as the roadside shops, there are roadside stalls. Just as in warm foreign parts with scooter hire every bend brings a little shrine with some flowers and a faded photograph of some bloke who thought that he could overtake on a blind corner on a road regularly used by lorries doing the run from the local cement works, so there are little stalls with fruit for sale. These are based on the honour system, you take a bag of apples and put twenty pee in the tin. You can tell the visitors to the area because they all first remark upon the refreshing honesty of the system and then start bleating about the lack of credit card payment facilities and loyalty card schemes at such roadside stalls.

It's not just fruit though. Every day on our way to Wells we drove past a sign advertising kittens for sale. I'm not sure how long kittens stay kittens, but we were there for two weeks and by the end of the holiday I was expecting to see the sign amended to 'cats for sale'. The sign showed quite a lot of optimism. This is dog owners' country, where one feels underdressed without at least one gun dog and a telltale bag of poo that marks you out as a responsible dog owner.

Norfolk notes - Burnham Market

Burnham Market, home of the Hoste Arms and, I hope, at least one outstanding Christmas light bulb, is also home to lovely shops selling lovely things (including, and I can't understand why I didn't buy this, a picnic decanter! That's right, a decanter made of plastic that you take on your picnic, when you simply can't bear the thought of pouring port from the bottle yet you want to save on weight. Actually I know why I didn't buy it - I refuse to compromise on these sort of things. If one decants, one decants from crystal, or on a picnic glass is acceptable.) at great expense.

There are also a couple of book shops. One selling new books, the other, much more interesting, selling second hand books. Second hand books are a treat. Not only are can you stimulate your mind with their contents, but with certain books you can speculate about the previous owner, like did they die of an exceptionally contagious disease that incubates in Agatha Christie novels?

Unlike charity bookshops which, although excellent, rely on donations, the owner of this shop obviously spends a lot of time at everything from car boot sales to book fairs, which is why the shop sells everything from a crisp new looking Dan Brown to a foxed-to-the-point-of-hounded innocuous looking wee hardback that turns out to be a first printing of a classic that contains a rare misprint - like the entire chapter in 'The Pickwick Papers' when the Pickwickians visit a whorehouse, complete with illustrations. Quite a misprint, quite a curiosity.

Instead of a coffee shop, the space has instead been devoted to cramming in yet another book.
Or map, because the shop sells old maps also. And if you are wondering who the hell would want to buy an out of date map, can I point you towards the Ordinance Survey vintage series, or any bloke (and it's usually blokes) that have old maps of some forgotten rural shire that smelled predominantly of dung and onions hanging proudly on their walls.

The Brazen Head sells everything from the Sex and the City 2 novelisation (which surely must be worth flicking through just to see if it's annotated - wouldn't that be excellent, to see comments in the margins along the lines of 'stopped reading here, too much like self harming') to penguin classics. This is a home of curiosities, delights and the occasional surprise.

Like a paperback first edition copy of 'The Wicker Man', which I didn't even know was a novel!

Obviously I know the film. This is the movie that set my expectations of both the mentality of islanders (which I think has been proven. There's just something about living on a small island that makes the folks suspicious of outsiders, modern life and any religion that does not involve crop worship of some kind. To be fair, this sort of mentality exists in isolated rural communities too and, with bus and rail links being what they are, we shouldn't look for improvement any time soon.) and small hotels (which has not. While small hotels may finally have embraced the idea of the mini-bar, none that I know of offer a complimentary writhing naked witch in the next bedroom. Not even the self styled 'boutique' hotels. Don't get me wrong, I think the advent of the boutique hotel is a fine thing; essentially the establishment of a boutique hotel involves taking a small B&B, redecorating with a theme (taking care to avoid 'run down 70's kitch'), going to half-board, realising that a glass of fruit juice is not a starter option and beefing up the soundproofing so that the sounds of passionate lovemaking, anguished sobs or that perennial hotel favourite, the single gunshot and scream, do not disturb the other guests).

But I never realised it was a novel first. It was in very good condition and priced at a tenner, exactly the price point to make certain folk blink at anyone having the chops to ask that for a second hand paperback but for any passing cult horror film fan to be consumed with that 'I must own it' sensation.

One purchase later, it was best speed to the Hoste Arms, home of fine wines and wi fi, to ponce off of their internet connection and see if I had got a bargain or been ripped off. Fired up Abebooks and, ah, that warm glow of satisfaction. I had nabbed a rarity and paid a reasonable price. Not that any of that mattered of course. But fans of cult horror films set in remote Scottish islands and staring Christopher Lee are rather a niche market and notoriously east to exploit.

It was, I suspect, a never to be repeated moment of paperback madness but I reckon I actually did rather better than others who indulge themselves on holiday and bring back something impractical, like an STD.

Norfolk notes - Sheringham

Sheringham continues to get posher. This is the town that did the near impossible; in the sort of act of a hero overcoming a monster that one normally associates with Greek myth, Sheringham saw off Tesco and instead of getting a shop in the centre of their town that would bugger the economy of every surrounding shops forevermore, have decided to go with a Waitrose placed out of town. This protects the local economy because of its geographic placing, and also because no bugger can afford to shop there.

Having said that, I notice that Sainsbury's local has snuck onto the high street. Though if the one in Sheringham is anything like the one near me, deciding to price everything as if it had just been announced on telly that the apocalypse was imminent and now is the time to panic buy and hoard will ensure that the local shops keep going.

Sheringham has also connected to the rest of the world in rather a special way. Sheringham is home to the North Norfolk Railway, a railway run by enthusiasts that runs form Sheringham to Holt. This means that you can catch a steam train and ride in style for about twenty minutes, then turn round. Great fun and they do Santa specials, dinner specials and so on.


Essentially all any railway needs to make it great is to be steam powered and run by enthusiasts. And now, it's connected to the main line thanks to tracks that run across the main road. This is, without doubt, a great idea. More, it begs the question why more enthusiast run railroads are not connected to the national network, even those ones running little trains that chuff chuff you round parks or, in the case of nearby Wells-Next-The-Sea, from the town down to the beach. OK so there is the question of gauge to be considered but surely there has to be scope for improving the day of frequent rail travellers beyond measure by replacing their commuter service with a tiny tourist train where the carriages are like benches. One would turn up at one's destination covered in soot, bandy legged and terrified - but strangely exhilarated.

The town was busy, the good weather having brought out middle aged men who seem to think that having leathers that match the paint job on their motorbikes means that nobody will notice their paunch. Still managed to get a table at the pub on the seafront however and took on coffee to sustain us on the short walk back to the car where the picnic and more flask tea awaited.

Other, posher, sorts had gone for the pub lunch option and very nice it looked too. At the table next to us the obviously untrained visitors had left some of their chips (I know!) which attracted the attention of a jaunty little bird who hopped and frolicked on the table, pecking at the leftovers.


Amusing as it was to see a bird so apparently unafraid of humans, like some sort of Disney tramp bird scavenging leftovers, it did occur that while one bird hopping, tweeting and gobbling chips was interesting, a flock of the bloody things doing the same would have been a different proposition entirely. That's the things that one must never forget about nature; it outnumbers us.

Norfolk notes - Cromer

Cromer ticks all the boxes as a proper Victorian seaside town. It's got a grand hotel perched on the cliff top, it's got a pier, it's even got a slightly unpleasant literary association (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was staying here when a friend told him about the spectral black dogs that are supposed to frequent the region and he got the idea for 'The Hound of the Baskervilles') and, of course, it's got that faded grander look that is a charming inevitability of juxtaposing impressive architecture and strong onshore winds.


Cromer is not, however, in the paint peeling, decaying, B&Bs being used to house the homeless rather than holidaymakers, DNR category of seaside towns. The paint and the pier are colourful, there's proper shows, tourists and locals shop here and of course, it's famous for it's crabs, meaning that the fishermen are out daily pulling up their pots while children line the end of the pier. With a crab line, a bucket and the enormous sense of expectation that is the base state of any fisherman.



There are also new pastimes to enjoy as well as the traditional ones. Cromer is the home of the Glide surf school and if you thought that the crab fishermen were optimistic, that's as nothing to the sort of person who fancies surfing at Cromer.

To be fair, you do get surf on the North Norfolk coast, except it usually happens within a couple of feet of the dry bit of the beach. Anyway, is it really a good idea to take surf students out on the water near the pier? I don't know much about surfing, but I do know that weaving in and out of the sort of solid piles that hold up an enormous structure in the North Sea might prove something of a challenge, especially as it's exactly the sort of challenge that anyone attracted to surfing would relish. That, however, is how you end up as a wet-suit full of hurt.


The Glide surf school though, has a secret weapon - the paddle. Looking out to sea I could see a half a dozen teens all standing on their surf boards, paddling. Bloody hell it looked like fun, like being a really cool gondolier or one if punters on the Cam, but looking less of a twat. It looked like the sort of sport where you spend some time paddling your board, fall in a few times, get ruthlessly mocked by your mates, have a race or two then back to the beach, towel off, bonnie, brews and a barbie. This is surfing without all that tedious sitting around waiting for a wave, having to then catch said wave, being tipped off your board, smeared along a reef and being stung to buggery by the spiky spindly fish that live there resulting in your leg blowing up to the size of a monster truck tyre.

Also, it means that you can leave any surf bore dumfounded. While conventional surfers try and out-do one another with tales of wild white water, where they caught the biggest waves and how the rollers break on some obscure beach on some Hawaiian island with a name you suspect is made up for the tourists and which would score very highly at Scrabble, you can join in with tales of where the water was calmest.

Obviously didn't get time to actually do any paddling, but it did look like tremendous fun. At some point in the future, possibly when my ego can stand being next to teens in wet suits, I may well give it a go.