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 And if you are wondering who the hell would want to buy an out of date map, can I point you towards the Ordinance Survey vintage series, or any bloke (and it's usually blokes) that have old maps of some forgotten rural shire that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.
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.
Labels: Books, Bookshops, Brazen Head bookshop, Burnham Market, Norfolk
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