Postcard fron Norfolk - Quay Tea

Ponies on a beach.  A serene scene, one would imagine.

The thing about the countryside is that it is oh so very dark and oh so very full of strange noises, or rather, noises made strange by the dark.  Ignorance, imagination and some woodland creature innocently and nocturnally going about its business do not for a great night’s sleep make.  In the past I have been kept awake by, in no particular order; a banshee (turned out to be the wind), a badger in the bathtub (turned out to be rain on a skylight) and a fox apparently caught in wood chipper (turned out to be a fox caught in another fox).

This morning’s alarm call came courtesy of a pine cone falling off a tree and rolling down the roof.  So, the morning’s cardio routine out of the way, it was time for a walk on the beach.

But not before preparing a picnic.

I have, for several years now, been trying to track down the perfect picnic hamper and, like anyone in search of just the right something or other, have in the meantime been going without, while droning on at length about it.  I was coming to the conclusion that the only way to obtain the perfect hamper was to make one myself and had gone so far as to Google ‘basket waving’ and follow up with ‘not as therapy’, when I was fortunate enough to be given a picnic hamper.

I can tell it’s a picnic hamper because it is lined with gingham and has plastic glasses, plates and some cutlery inside, all cunningly secured with loops of elastic.  Gentleman and Player’s fashion editor did not appreciate the aesthetics of the thing.  It is, I have to concede, not a traditional picnic hamper, being made out of bamboo rather than wicker, but I think calling it ‘The Tenko Box’ was a little cruel.  Not unlike Tenko.

Now that I’ve used it however, I am developing a degree of affection for The Tenko Box.  This is largely, I recognise, affection by association, because it contained sandwiches and tea today and anything that produces sandwiches and tea is OK by me.

There was also a bold experiment in pic nic tea making, or rather, a return to the days of greatness.  Back in the seventies, I had an uncle whose idea of making a proper cuppa was to get out his camping gas stove, brew up some boiling water, and do the thing properly.  The man could brew up in the teeth of a gale and, as somebody who liked an al fresco cuppa on holiday in Scotland, usually did.  The decades gallop forward and I had got used to the convenience of flask tea, that is, tea in a flask allowed to stew and brew until when you drink it you can’t shake the suspicion that somebody has used the flask recently to store Bovril, or diesel, and has not rinsed it out properly.

Fast forward to earlier this summer and a long overdue breakthrough.  A large flask for boiling water, a smaller flask for milk and some teabags.  And so it was that with my two flasks and my teabag, I was able to brew up on the harbour wall what shall henceforth be known as ‘Quay Tea’.

Quay Tea was a resounding success, free of the tannins and criticism that formed so much of a feature of flask tea it actually tasted like, well, tea.

And very welcome it was too.  We had just done two hours on Holkham Beach, where the early start was put to good use in beating the crowd.  The beach was deserted apart from enthusiastic dog walkers, there enthusiastic dogs and horse riders with their skittish mounts.

I had not appreciated just how crazy horses are.  At least the ones on the beach were. Presumably they have seen water before, not least in troughs.  One would think from the reaction that splashing across a small stream provoked that their rider was urging them to swim the Amazon.  I thought it was just supposed to be witches that had a problem with crossing running water but no, apparently it’s horses too.  This may explain why witches ride brooms rather than ponies.

Out on the beach, back through the pines.  And what better way to get the old heart rate back up again then, in the middle of a lovely walk through the shady pines, suddenly recall every M R James story I’ve ever read.

Still, better that than Black Shuck.

Run!  Run back to the car and waiting Quay Tea and, if necessary, beat the spectral hound to death with the Tenko Box.

The search for a decent picnic basket

The search for a decent picnic basket, no, I'll correct that, the search for just the right picnic basket is something that has been occupying me for some months now. There is much more to it than simply Googling 'picnic basket' and filtering out the pictures of Yogi Bear. I'm just glad that the term has not yet been adopted by the deviant community to define some repulsive sexual practice that leaves you with wicker marks on your arse.

What I'm looking for is something traditional, with six plates, six bowls, six side plates and six cups and saucers, cutlery, seasoning containers and plenty of space for tubs of food and so on. I am prepared to concede that a separate basket will be required for beverages, or possibly two extra baskets, one for red, one for white. It does not seem that tall an ask.

I also realise that it would probably be beneficial if it came on little wheels and possibly had a small motor to power it.

But there seems to be a dearth of decent picnic baskets, especially ones that come with a separate linen compartment. Possibly this is a gap in the market that I can plug with some sort of cottage industry, bespoke picnic baskets. Get the baskets of various sizes woven in China, or even better somewhere where there are lots of neurotics who look on basket weaving as therapy, like the Home Counties, then outfit to the customers requirement.

Of course, the thing to do would be to run a bespoke service. This would mean that you would not give the customer what they asked for, but what they really needed. Thus somebody who thought that they wanted a four piece traditional set up would, after a brief consultation, be presented with a basket that contains a wine rack, a cork screw, compartments for glasses and a small space for bar snacks. Who could ask for more?

I still think that the ultimate picnic basket could be mode by adapting one of those wicker coffins that they use for green burials (don't they, well, leak?). You've got space there for a dinner service, lamps, a small stove, a larder and a wine cellar, and best of all it's got handles all the way round so the six of you it takes to carry the bloody thing can all get a good grip.

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.