Postcard from Norfolk - Fret ye not

On holiday, the weather may be ‘brisk’ or it may be ‘bracing’. One is on holiday and so holiday speak is employed. ‘Wet’ is a word reserved for the condition of your glass at lunch time, the only acceptable use of ‘damp’ is to describe the bottom of one’s trousers after over-enthusiastic paddling and insufficient rollage. Along the coast what others would call ‘fog’ or ‘mist’ is more accurately described as a ‘fret’. A fret is where the warm sea touches the cold land, or possibly where the cold sea touches the warm land but whatever the cause the opportunity to use the word ‘fret’ is seized upon by one and all, usually incorporating it into a sentence such as ‘I am fretful that it is going to piss down all day today. What?’

In truth, it’s not raining, although there is something of a breeze or, more accurately, a ‘breeze’ of the sort that would allow a wind turbine to power every intimate massager in Holloway, before ripping the sails off.

To get out of the fret, took a trip to Burnham Market. Mid-week one can just about find a parking spot, if one is prepared to circle endlessly like some sort of car shark or just do what I do, which is [do you really think I’m going to say?]. There is an art exhibition put on by a local art club in the village church. As with any art club exhibition, the hang reveals a mixed ability. The very best painting were N.F.S. as the painter has just has a stroke and the family want to hang on to them in case they are the last paintings the chap is ever going to do.

Elsewhere in the exhibition there was some talent and some quirk and, unfortunately, the level of talent in the quirky entries was not always enough to bring off the intent.

Naturally, signed the visitors’ book with gushing praise and told the two lovely Burnham market ladies how wonderful it all was and how lovely the church was (which it is). I like art in churches, it makes one feel less of a penitent and the occasional landscape is a welcome distraction from all the stained glass and scenes from the bible stuff.

Stopping off at The Ship at Brancaster, it made a stab at redeeming itself after not serving chips on demand earlier in the week by coming up with simply the best hot chocolate ever. It wasn’t so much the hot chocolate but rather the sheer amount of whipped cream and marshmallow that they crammed onto the top of it. Any more and it would have had to come in a separate bowl.