Postcard from Norfolk - A fistfull of chips
A trip out to Sheringham, via a stop in Salthouse for lunch at the Dun Cow. It’s the done thing. Sitting in the courtyard in the sunshine there was a moment of tension and trepidation introduced to this otherwise relaxed scene. We had ordered sandwiches of various types, which come with ‘a handful’ of chips. There was some conversation about just what ‘a handful’ constituted. We made the effort to keep the banter light but you could tell there was an edge to it. The expectation was that it would be the handful of the sort of chap who can palm a basketball and not, for instance, the handful of somebody just out the womb. We wanted a large hand, so that we wouldn’t have to beat the landlord to death with an example of same in order to drive the lesson home.
As it turned out, chef must either be a big bloke or have overheard our conversation, or got our note, because the handful of chips that arrived was just right.
Also lunching at the Dun Cow were birdwatchers. We had our suspicions of their pastime based on hats, beards, field glasses, vest of many pockets and stout boots but what put it beyond doubt was when they were able to correct our woeful misidentification of a little fellow pearched on the chimney, tweeting. They did very well to hide what must have been great irritation at our ham fisted attempts to Name That Bird. I think I was closest with ‘goat’.
Sheringham is the home to my new favourite bookshop. I’ve never been in to it before, always preferring to give the Brazen head in Burnham Market my custom but this time I wandered in and yes, it was because there was a sign in the window about how this was a Dickens of a good shop and potential customers were right to have great expectations of it. Who could resist?
Not me. Once over the threshold, the place is a delight. It’s like the illustration of some magical realist children’s book, a cave of books, a building made out of books. Every wall is lined, there are nooks, there are crannies, and they are all filled with books. It’s like the home of a literary hoarder and probably what my front room is going to look like in a few years if I don’t stop buying books.
As well as having a diverse and fascinating stock, the place is curated with care and humour, for instance the misery lit is opposite the children’s section. Displayed face on instead of spine on, one sees that the cover design of misery lit paperbacks are generic, there’s a title and author’s name in somber font and colour, then a black and white or sepia picture of a child looking either concerned or constipated depending on how much the publishing house was able to spring for a decent stock photograph. And they all have the same titles ‘No daddy no’, ‘Please stop mummy’, ‘Cut that out uncle Eric’, ‘Grandad you filthy fucker you could at least have washed it first’, that sort of thing.
Obviously, child cruelty must be stopped, if only to make sure no more of these bloody things are printed.
I’m also more convinced than ever that the Kindle must also be stopped, or second hand books will cease to exist. That means that in future years adults will be denied the pleasure of rediscovering ‘First term at Chalet School’, ‘Second term at Chalet School’, ‘Detention at Chalet School’, ‘In the showers at Chalet School’ and so on.
As it turned out, chef must either be a big bloke or have overheard our conversation, or got our note, because the handful of chips that arrived was just right.
Also lunching at the Dun Cow were birdwatchers. We had our suspicions of their pastime based on hats, beards, field glasses, vest of many pockets and stout boots but what put it beyond doubt was when they were able to correct our woeful misidentification of a little fellow pearched on the chimney, tweeting. They did very well to hide what must have been great irritation at our ham fisted attempts to Name That Bird. I think I was closest with ‘goat’.
Sheringham is the home to my new favourite bookshop. I’ve never been in to it before, always preferring to give the Brazen head in Burnham Market my custom but this time I wandered in and yes, it was because there was a sign in the window about how this was a Dickens of a good shop and potential customers were right to have great expectations of it. Who could resist?
Not me. Once over the threshold, the place is a delight. It’s like the illustration of some magical realist children’s book, a cave of books, a building made out of books. Every wall is lined, there are nooks, there are crannies, and they are all filled with books. It’s like the home of a literary hoarder and probably what my front room is going to look like in a few years if I don’t stop buying books.
As well as having a diverse and fascinating stock, the place is curated with care and humour, for instance the misery lit is opposite the children’s section. Displayed face on instead of spine on, one sees that the cover design of misery lit paperbacks are generic, there’s a title and author’s name in somber font and colour, then a black and white or sepia picture of a child looking either concerned or constipated depending on how much the publishing house was able to spring for a decent stock photograph. And they all have the same titles ‘No daddy no’, ‘Please stop mummy’, ‘Cut that out uncle Eric’, ‘Grandad you filthy fucker you could at least have washed it first’, that sort of thing.
Obviously, child cruelty must be stopped, if only to make sure no more of these bloody things are printed.
I’m also more convinced than ever that the Kindle must also be stopped, or second hand books will cease to exist. That means that in future years adults will be denied the pleasure of rediscovering ‘First term at Chalet School’, ‘Second term at Chalet School’, ‘Detention at Chalet School’, ‘In the showers at Chalet School’ and so on.
Labels: Books, Bookshops, Drink, Dun Cow, Food, Norfolk, Pubs, Salthouse, Sheringham
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