Norfolk Notes

Norfolk’s Phoenix

Male Marsh Harrier against a cloudless Norfolk Sky

Imagine the scene: it’s a bright, cold, cloudless day. The Norfolk sky is the kind of blue that gladdens the heart after dull winter’s days and, although the air is chill, there is the first hint of warmth in the sun.

In front of you is a vibrant green meadow with a shimmering shallow pool in the centre, and to your right is a sea of golden Norfolk reed, nodding in the breeze.

There’s movement in the reeds and a flash of shining golden brown catches the light. And there she is, rising from the golden sea of reed and reminiscent of childhood drawings of phoenix rising from the flames. My first close-up of a marsh harrier.

These birds had always held me in thrall but I’d only ever seen them in the distance and never when I had my binoculars. This time I had been promised a close-up and was prepared. What I was not prepared for was my reaction to them.

The bird that rose from the fen had a cream head – a female – and lifted effortlessly into the clear sky on broad wings. She began to quarter the fen, drifting across the reeds after a couple of slow, heavy wing flaps. It’s a different movement with these birds. There is no quick, darting dashes across the sky but their wing flaps appear almost slow-motion – however the glide seems endless. The hold their wings in a strong dihedral – V-shaped above the horizontal – which makes them easier to spot in flight.

I’d wanted to see a Marsh Harrier eye to eye for so long and the reality of the bird was much more than I had expected. There is something majestic about them, something elemental – and the sun glinting off her red-golden feathers as she dipped a wing to turn down to the marsh made her shine like copper.

There came a call from the treeline and there he was. The male harrier. His wings glowed grey with clear black tips showing as he flew low over the reeds and at one point he extended yellow legs as he dropped down – but changed his mind and rose again.

They called to each other but did not engage in the sky dancing that we had hoped for – but it didn’t matter. I felt I’d been in the presence of something utterly wonderful and raw. I could have stood all day and watched them. There’s beauty in their movements as well as their plumage and a power occasionally glimpsed, but more often shimmering under the surface. The flight is hypnotic and they drag you into their world as you watch them and straight into your heart.

If you can find them, go and see them. Everything else in the world will fade away when you are eye to eye with such beauty and it will just be you and them and their calls on the breeze. Nature’s alchemy with a direct path into your soul. I’m not exaggerating – trust me.

The Joy of Rain

The ruins of St John the Baptist chapel in Croxton

I knew it was going to be a good day. On the approach to Fulmodeston a Red Kite hung above the road and then, with barely perceptible movement, flicked across to the wood and out of sight.

I’d picked a route around one particular path which ran through a wood. I’d often admired the wood as I’d driven along the road beside it in another part of life, but now, with the paper map in front of me, I could see a vaguely circular shape among the footpaths and mapped this into the Ordnance Survey app.

Wet weather had been forecast and this is where I come in. I want to lure you into walking in what would be perceived by some as ‘bad’ weather. I’ve always loved a wild weather and today, although not wild, was soaking wet with a strong wind. Waterproof boots and a waterproof coat and this doesn’t really matter at all but the payoff for being out in it is huge.

We had explored the ruins of the chapel of St John the Baptist and had crossed a wide open field of sunflowers, now just nodding brown seed heads with the odd flash of yellow, when the sky had begun to darken. By the time we had entered the path to the wood the rain was coming down hard.

We both stopped walking and just listened. The wind was shushing through the canopy of the leaves overhead and the rain ticktocked down onto the path. You could smell the earthiness mingled with the rain and felt part of the wood itself.

There’s something about being outdoors in ‘bad’ weather that forces you to become part of the landscape. You are no longer a bystander, just walking along a path, but you are something on that path that is being treated the same as the trees. Your awareness of being outdoors heightens and you feel the breaks in the hedges as the wind whips through them, you notice the dying tree as there are no leaves to stop the rain.

The shape of the path becomes different as puddles form and water begins to run and your senses tune in to the patterns around you.

We moved off the main path and into a sunken ditch to eat our lunch. It was much nicer than it sounded. The trees were larger off the path and the bank slipped down quite steeply, cutting off the worst of the wind. We each found a fairly dry bit of log to sit on and sunk down into the woodland floor. The lower you drop, the quieter the weather. Moss surrounded us, a vibrant green and as soft as the coat of a retriever. There was no sound expect the patter of the rain, diffused through the leaves and the movement of the wood itself.

Later, back on the path and crossing open wetland the rain was coming down hard.

Long grass whips around your ankles and pulls a little at your boots. Wild flowers were still blooming and we stopped and ate blackberries as we walked. I never feel more alive than when out in the wind and rain. It has no respect for anything and you just have to go along with it. With the right coat and boots it will not kill you. However you are not the same person that ends the walk as you were at the beginning. You are much more alive. Much more in tune with the wildlife and you have become part of the landscape. Trust me.

Happy Norfolk Day!

It’s Tuesday 27th July and that makes it Norfolk Day. No, this is not something that I’ve made up, but a real thing here. We are going to celebrate everything Norfolk apparently – probably by communal tutting and making that odd ‘huh’ sound that Norfolk people do, which can only be described as a cross between a dog bark and the opening note of a Haka, accompanied by a horse-like head toss. If you’ve been ‘huh’d’ it’s like a knife through your heart.

I expect the local paper and social media will be full of things to help you experience the ‘real Norfolk’ such a walking along Holkham Beach in a haze of Boden and Hunters, eating fish and chips on Cromer Pier whilst fighting off the gulls, listening to Elton John warble at Blickling Hall whilst two women knit furiously behind you and chat loudly as he gets emotional during ‘Candle in the Wind’. These kind of things.

My idea of a Norfolk experience slightly differs. I think that you have not fully experienced Norfolk without a ride on the Snails at Joyland in Yarmouth. It’s every child’s rite of passage here. You are crammed into a large, painted snail and hurtled around quite violently along an undulating track whilst clinging on with your little sweaty hands to the handrail. A friend of mine told me he was going to sue them for whiplash and I think he was only possibly joking. He was from Berkshire, after all.

For the sea-swimming experience, I would suggest anywhere true and authentic. That is anywhere where the sea is slightly grey, when any skin resembles a blue plucked chicken in under ten seconds when exposed to the air, and where there is a lot of seaweed. You don’t get the full experience without something slightly scratchy and slimy touching your leg in the murk – especially if you are slightly out of your depth. My dad used to enjoy flinging the odd bit of seaweed and yelling, ‘Look out!’ as it thwacked the water beside you – cue screeching and trying to run away through chest-deep water, across foot-ripping stones. Actually, he used to also (I say ‘also’ but he will do it now, given half a chance) take the top off a tomato and cup his hands with one of the green ‘legs’ poking out and yes, he would also fling that whilst shouting ‘Spider!’ All this backfired quite terribly one Christmas when I was very tiny. We were decorating the sitting room and dad had brought in a piece of holly and jokingly poked me with it. Having observed the boys next door I knew what to do and promptly stuck my two fingers up. Horrified silence followed.

For the fish and chip part of the Norfolk experience I cannot recommend Norwich Market enough. It’s an excellent place for food and you will meet some brilliant people on there. Plus you don’t need to wear Boden or carry a wicker basket.

Decent music can be found in many places around Norfolk. When the plague has passed and we can mingle again, go and see a band at Blakeney Harbour Rooms. It’s a fabulous place with some really brilliant bands. The highlight for me so far has been Dr Feelgood, but when you are dancing to a Rolling Stones Tribute act who look and sound like the Stones did on film from the 70s, with a roomful of friends, life cannot get much better. Again, no Boden needed – in fact, it is actively discouraged.

There are some wonderful well publicised Norfolk walking routes such as the Coastal Path, but I would urge you to look at a map and find a little footpath that seems to border fields and make yourself a circular walk. I’ve discovered the most beautiful spots around here which I would never have found without the imposed restrictions of lockdown – and I’m really grateful. Nothing beats a quiet little green lane, where the trees almost meet above your head and the ground has that thwump as you walk.

I would also say go and have a drink in a traditional Norfolk pub. You know the kind of place – comfortable wooden chairs and benches, perhaps a fire in winter, people gathered at the bar, talking and passing the time of day with their neighbours and not a gastro-pub menu in sight. If you know where one is now, do let me know, as I’ve love to go to one too.

Happy Norfolk Day!

The coming of summer

After what seemed like weeks of dull, misty, cold days the summer arrived in this part of Norfolk yesterday. It was fabulous!

The air barely moved and the birds seemed too lethargic to eat. Even the thieving squirrel (who I secretly love) could not be bothered to brazenly rob the feeders but was probably resting in the tree at the bottom of the garden, cool in the shade of the leaves.

A lazy day moved into a lazy evening and I joined my daughter and her friends for drinks her garden. We live in a row of four tiny cottages – she is one end, me in the other. Molly calls it an experiment in medieval living (she’s an archaeologist and medieval historian). It works for us. She and her boyfriend have built in cat care and I have someone to catch spiders.

It grew darker and the drink was flowing. Suddenly through the twilight came a thundering of paws and Bertie, their cat, flew past the guests in hot pursuit of the biggest rat I’ve seen for a while. As party conversation goes, this was different.

We are lucky to have very dark skies here and ended the evening waving at the ISS and identifying satellites from the night sky app. Apart from the rat experience, it was lovely.

Not so lovely was being woken at 4am by the cutter in the field opposite, slicing down the oil seed rape. It sounded like it was coming through the house – although that could have just been the wine.