I should be working for the English Tourist
Board!
On the pretext of visiting an aged Aunt we arranged a
cycling holiday in Norfolk. An array of
possible routes opened up when we began to consult our cycling book. As Noel Coward memorably penned, ‘’Very flat,
Norfolk.’ We decided to start with the
flattest route possible, and therefore made our way to Ely. Until now, I had thought that Noel Coward was
the only quotable source about the county, but it seems that Kazuo Ishiguro, in
‘Never let me go’, now has the monopoly.
One of his characters, on learning that Norfolk is the ‘lost county’,
forever envisages it as the place where things that are lost are sent.
Despite three memorable years in a University not far to the
south, I had never visited Ely. Bicycles
were excellent in Cambridge for local journeys, but the weight, size and
reliability of the machine that I jettisoned at the end of my time there did
not encourage trips further. I did once
nobly cycle some enormous distance in the middle of the night to return a lost
contact lens to a girlfriend in St Neots, and had she lived in Ely it might
have enriched the experience. I know
that strictly speaking, Ely is still in Cambridgeshire, but having come this
far from Dorset it feels like Norfolk. We
stayed at The Old Hall, just outside, with a fine distant view of the cathedral
(‘The Ship of the Fens’), and the family in ownership turned out to have had a
contemporary of our friend Xerxes at the King’s School, Ely in the 1960s. School photographs in the upstairs corridors
proved the point. The weather was
dreary, but we made use of the time to visit the cathedral. Ely council is surprisingly generous in
allowing free parking, which certainly encourages one to visit. We were just in time to experience most of
the Evensong service, including a superb setting of the Magnificat by Charles
Wood. The choristers sang beautifully,
and having processed out at the end of the service they disappeared
immediately, no doubt to do prep or to get supper or both. We were left with the conductor of the choir,
who despite his charming appearance during the service declared himself too
busy to show us the medieval wall painting of the martyrdom of King Edmund
(shot with arrows by the Viking invaders). There were two rather large lady
vergers or canons or something who also disappeared, if that is not a
contradiction in terms. But we admired
the magnificent Octagon (built after the Norman tower collapsed in the 1320s)
and the general ambience of one of our finest and oldest cathedrals. Building of the present cathedral commenced
in about 1071 after the defeat of Hereward the Wake in 1070, and took just over
a hundred years. Ely is full of pleasant walks through the cathedral
precincts and by the river Ouse and we then enjoyed an excellent dinner at a
country pub, the Anchor Inn at Sutton Gault.
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| Evensong, Ely Cathedral |
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| Ely Cathedral, from the South |
The following morning we cycled into Ely and then commenced
our circular ride through the Fens. It’s
strange how on a circular route the wind can always seem against you, but I
only counted a real back wind for about five miles of the 47 we covered. Our route lay out to the North West via
Coveney, and sadly we passed the Anchor Inn at a time in the morning when only
desperate alcoholics would have ventured in for another drink. I can vouch for their strong ale though,
sampled the previous evening, which is memorably called ‘Azzaparrot’. Apart from the fertile black soils of the area, the most
striking geographical feature is the arrow straight parallel course of the Old
Bedford river and the New Bedford river, otherwise known as the hundred foot
drain. This latter channel was
engineered in the mid 17th Century by Dutch engineers to drain the
frequently flooded land. It runs for
about twenty miles, with few crossings.
The huge levees on each side mean that one is cycling some two metres
below sea level. Recrossing of the
channels is achieved at Welney, a small village marked by its two bridges and
the excellent Lamb and Flag pub. There
is a feature on the ‘Fen Skaters of Welney’ on the wall. In the 1890s, the Fenmen, particularly the
Smart family, rivalled the Dutch speed skaters, and became world
champions. This was before anyone had
bothered with figure skating. Charles
Causley’s poem ‘A Ballad for Katharine of Aragon’ which carries the line, ‘As I
walked down by the river, down by the frozen fen…’ keeps popping into my
mind. Even though it is about the fens
at Peterborough cathedral where Catherine (usual spelling but not Causley’s) is
buried. The pub ambience is cosy, the home
made pork crackling pieces are the local ‘naughty but nice’, and the beer is
excellent (Elgoods’ Cambridge Bitter).
Above the welcome open fire is a magnificent case containing a 36lb pike
which was caught locally in 1957.
Although we weren’t ‘down by the frozen fen’ it was still
somewhat chilly and we were reluctant to leave, but completed the ride back to
Ely, loaded the car, and drove to the north Norfolk coast. This is a large county and it takes an hour
and a half to reach the inaccurately named Cley-next-the-Sea.
We were booked into the Cley Windmill, which is a
charismatic spot, though the wheel room is achievable only by ladder and is
undoubtedly best booked by young athletic people. We had to take what was available and were
billeted in the Longhouse next door. The
prices are comparable with London, and reflect what the owners can ask for a
romantic location on the north Norfolk coast.
When we leave two days later it is noticeable that ‘Essex Man’ with his
shiny new white Lexus RX is paying with fistfuls of notes, so perhaps the black
economy extends here and offers Norfolk hoteliers some benefits. An interesting local couple whom we meet the
following evening at the excellent Cley Windmill dinner (duck spring rolls,
hake, chocolate tartlet) explain the frequency of Dutch gabling and red brick
houses of the area as the ballast brought back by boat in return from the
wealthy wool trade with Holland in former centuries. They also provide a footnote on Essex man:
don’t equip yourself with too smart an outboard motor on your boat. Weekends see night time raids from Essex,
with chainsaws used to take out motor and transom on your boat, and the whole
lot is on a container from Felixstowe to the continent before you can say
‘Honda 4 Stroke’. The footpath to Cley beach passes by the windmill, but it’s
another mile more or less to the sandbanks of the coast from this point.
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| Cley Windmill |
Our first evening is scheduled for our special meal of the
trip. We dine at Morston Hall Hotel, not
too far away, in the restaurant run under the aegis of Galton Blakiston. The menu speaks for itself. The cost is enormous, but as always on these
occasions, we remind ourselves that we almost never eat out, and that for
Lindsay, with her professional hat on, this is ‘research’, though sadly HMRC do
not accept this. But let me advise you –
if you do want fantastic food, perhaps not as elaborate as Galton’s, but cooked
by a former trainee of his, Daniel Smith, then visit the ‘Ingham Swan’ near Sea
Palling, where we ate on our last night.
The bill was about 40% of that of the Morston Hall Hotel, and we
certainly didn’t feel short changed foodwise.
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| Scallops with Norfolk asparagus, Ingham Swan |
A great experience.
And next day we needed it.
Lindsay decided we had to visit Brancaster, and it’s a long cycle ride
from Cley, especially if you want to avoid the A149, the coast road.
On this day, the coastal highlight was Blakeney, which is
smaller and has a more intimate feel than Wells-next-the Sea, which although
attractive, is more touristy. From
Wells, a track leads through the coastal belt to the Holkham Hall estate, which
we cycle through. Holkham Hall is an
example of the 18th century’s taste for Palladian style
architecture, and is on the grand scale. From the south side of the estate, a country road leads into
the unremarkable little village of Burnham Thorpe, which despite the fact that
it is some miles from the sea is known as the birthplace of Lord Nelson. Thence to Burnham Market and so to
Brancaster, which is rather disappointing.
It’s mainly known for its golf club, the Royal West Norfolk. After many inland miles we find our way back
to Cley, visiting the beautiful church of North Creake, with its superb
hammer-beam roof, on the way. North
Norfolk is adorned with magnificent churches which were built in the days of
tithes to the church from the very successful East Anglian wool trade.
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| Blakeney |
From Cley we move on towards the area of the Broads, reed
fringed stretches of open water formed by the rivers Ant, Bure, and Yare. There are relatively few places where one can
get close to the Broads on the road, but we do our best, and the vistas remind
one of scenes from the jigsaws of childhood.
Wroxham is a little overcrowded and touristy, but there is a lovely
picnic spot near the Norfolk Broads Yacht Club on Wroxham Broad, and the White
Lion at Neatishead is a good lunchtime stopover. The most beautiful section of our ride
however is near the beginning. Southeast
of the town of Aylsham is Buxton, where we leave the car in the Bure Valley
Railway Walk car park. Soon after
leaving this spot with its charming little steam train, we cross the Bure at
Brampton on a beautiful old bridge.
Flights of bluebells in the trees, cowslip meadows, and a glistening
stream make this a lovely spot.
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| Bure Valley Railway |
Our final night in Norfolk is spent at Dairy Barns, Lound Farm. The cost is less than half the price we have
spent elsewhere, and it represents excellent value. On our last day, we do another circular ride around the
coast at Sea Palling, Horsey, and past Horsey Mere, Heigham Sound, and Hickling
Broad. A chance exploration takes us to
How Hill House, and the beautiful grounds stretching down to the river Ant,
again, a locale with scenes reminiscent of Constable and the huge skies of
Suffolk. This was certainly the
highlight of our final day, and reminds one that if prepared for the English
weather, ‘Staycation’ can be a great option for a holiday.
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| Sailing on Horsey Mere |
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| The River Ant at How Hill House |
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| Boardman Mill - a 'skeleton' mill |
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