August 21, 2007
Norwich - Cromer - Fakenham
Where the Northe Winde bloweth uncommon cruel and the power of Steame is over the Land. Ale is taken as Restitution.
The northerly wind was still a-blowing, but with more force. We decided to cheat a bit. Barbara's eye was now less red thanks to the magic of antibiotic, but I thought a ride due north into the aforementioned blow would do it little good, so we jumped on a train to Cromer. By Cromer station is a large supermarket. Barbara entered to pick up lunch supplies and failed to return for more than half an hour. I usually do the shopping in this partnership and now you know why. During my unrequested break guarding the bicycles, I spoke to local cyclist, John Johnson, who was doing some food shopping himself. From the way he was dressed I had thought he might be keen on a little cyclo-touring, but no. He rode his bike around his locality, but was disinclined to stray. Nevertheless, he's the kind of person the 21st century's likely to need more of.
We rode down to the sea-front to take the road westwards to Sheringham. The wind was fierce. In the pub in Wymondham, Hector's female companion had waxed enthusiastic about the north Norfolk coastline. I had thought we might take in some of the recommended wildlife havens, but in these conditions? No fucking chance. In Sheringham, glad for a break from the wind we came across the prettily restored station, terminus of the North Norfolk Railway, a privately owned, heritage steam operation. I was a trainspotter [railfan] as a boy until sex and booze became more compelling. I still like to watch the big, dirty, inefficient monsters in action and since I bought my new camera, enjoy photographing them. On cue with my exit from the toilet, into the station came one of the biggest, one among the last steam locomotives to be built in Britain.
Given that the coastline was smitten by the sound and fury of that Northerly wind, instead of peering at distant wading birds and the like with streaming eyes, we turned our direction and attention, inland, to the sound and fury of more steam engines at the North Norfolk Railway's motive power depot near Weybourne. A train was pulling in to Weybourne station as we arrived. I took a picture of the engine from the platform. Then, ignoring a Do Not Pass sign I walked down the ramp and off the platform to take a picture of the engine front-end on. A large, well-nourished man angrily ordered me to get back on the platform. Hadn't I seen the sign? Didn't I know I was trespassing? A more genial guy who was engaged on the internal restoration of an old carriage asked us if I'd been told to get back up on to the platform.
'The cheeky old bugger,' he said, in a Norfolk accent, 'He's the managing director.'
It seems I had incurred the ire of the Fat Controller. We chatted to the good-natured restorer for a few minutes, who mentioned that another preservation railway, the Severn Valley Railway in the West Midlands had been put out of action because of unseasonal rain; a real blow, they take a lot of tourist money in the summer.
| Heart | 0 | Comment | 0 | Link |
| Heart | 0 | Comment | 0 | Link |
We set forth again on a convoluted back-road route to Holt, which is the other terminus of the NNR. I'm not sure why, but Holt is a tourist honeypot. I suppose the railway has a little to do with it and the typically Norfolk vernacular architecture. The place is full of craft shops, antique dealers and the like. It was busy today, probably because most visitors had been driven away from outdoor activities by the uncompromising weather. We ate our painstakingly purchased lunch on one of four benches set round a tree in the courtyard of a small shopping precinct. I looked at the map and wondered how far our painfully slow progress was going to get us that day. Now we needed to round the Wash via Kings Lynn before turning north.
We left Holt by the main road before turning again onto a more tranquil route. There was no rain, but it was a dismal afternoon, the wind was bringing in low cloud off the North Sea. We rode on and after a twist or turn or two decided to spend the night in Fakenham. The hotel in the town square was full, but the receptionist directed us to a pub, The Bull, that had B&B accommodation.
| Heart | 0 | Comment | 0 | Link |
I unloaded the bikes while Barbara checked out the room. A heavily built man, in his fifties came out of the pub and started into a story about having bought an electrically assisted bike, which had given him problems. The punch-line was how he had had to threaten the owner of the bike shop where he bought it with violence, before he could get it properly repaired. I hope they're not all like that in there, I thought.
The barman whose acquaintance I fully made after a shower, turned out to be much more affable. A former jet-engine technician in the RAF, he had settled in Norfolk after leaving the service. He had spent time in the Falkland Islands and in Turkey at the time of the first Gulf War. I was surprised to learn that on one day a week, while the British took a day off from patrolling the no-fly zone over Northern Iraq, the Turkish airforce stepped in and went out and attacked Kurdish separatists from the air.
The pub is a free house, meaning that instead of being tied to a brewery and therefore obliged to principally sell their products, the owner is entitled to sell any kind of beer whatsoever, in this instance a selection of 'real ales.' This system of 'tied houses', in which large brewing companies own the majority of pubs and bars, used to be the norm in England. It is becoming less so with the proliferation of new and often more stylish establishments all over the country. In any case the Bull is a safe haven for those inhabitants of Fakenham who cherish cask-conditioned beer. That is to say, the kind of traditional, unpasteurised English beer which is delivered to the pub in a wooden barrel, has no injected gas for extra fizz and is delivered to the glass by means of a traditional hand pump. This is real ale. Personally, I prefer to drink draught Guinness in a pub, but I still applaud the efforts of CAMRA [The Campaign for Real Ale] for, well, keeping it real. This evening before going out to eat I did try a couple of pints of local brew. There was a mild buzz of excitement in the Bull that evening because the management had been able to acquire a barrel of Abbot Ale from the Greene King brewery in Bury St. Edmunds, apparently a sure thing for pulling in trade.
Our present government, while on the subject of the demon drink, has been forced into a moral panic over so-called binge drinking by the nation's youth and the concomitant misbehaviour up and down the land. Newspaper headlines along the lines of 'TOWN CENTRE BATTLEFIELD and Her Majesty's Opposition twisting the knife in regard to liberalisation of pub opening times, has resulted in a recent rise in drink tax. It's certainly true that street life can be a bit lively on a Friday or Saturday night. It's a problem that has remained unsolved, according to some historians, since the seventeenth century.
On our return from dinner at the Oak Inn restaurant, just off the town square, I found myself seated at the bar next to Eamon. He was convinced he had the answer.
'Just give 'em all Es,' he suggested. 'When we used to go to raves all over the place, you never had this sort of trouble.'
He was referring specifically to an outbreak of fighting, as the police tried to close a rave-like party being held in a disused factory on the outskirts of Norwich. I had seen the item myself on the local TV news.
Love 'em up, bliss 'em out is not, I suspect, the solution the Home Secretary had in mind.
After an entertaining alcohol-fuelled evening with Eamon and other locals, it was time for bed. Some of us have to ride a bike in the morning.
Today's ride: 58 km (36 miles)
Total: 311 km (193 miles)
| Rate this entry's writing | Heart | 2 |
| Comment on this entry | Comment | 0 |