A Bit of a Hoo Ha

I was going to start this ramble/preamble to our cycling holiday several days ago and had had it in mind to call it 'B-Day', short for 'Back on my Bike' Day. Unfortunately (or fortunately) events overtook the 1st July scheduled training start date and what's more I re-read the title back to myself! After a snort and a guffaw I realised that both the timetable and the title were simply destined to change. There was no way I was going out cycling in the rain and there would likely be quite enough mention of my posterior in the coming ramblings without further reference to 'tiny toilets'! 

Moving on....

So, back to the planning. Originally I'd set aside July and August to get in shape for the next epic adventure but July arrived damp and miserable (or was that just me?). Anyway, what I had forgotten to take into account was the need to prepare my BIKE, and not just myself! So, having girded my loins for Day 1 about a week ago I asked HRH if he fancied joining me on a gentle tootle. 'Sure', he says, 'I'll pump the tyres up whilst you're at work and we'll go out after lunch'. Strangely, I wasn't in any hurry to get home that day but, having already used up the 'too busy' and the 'poor weather' excuses and, mindful of the fact that I actually DO have to get to the point where I can average 4 hours in the saddle every day for 6 days in just a few weeks' time, I agreed. Imagine my delight therefore when I was told later that, having dusted off the bicycle pump, HRH discovered I had a puncture! Reprieved, I pottered off to Halfords in my nice comfy car to pick up a new inner tube, and successfully delayed the inevitable another day. 

At this stage I'd like to point out that I hadn't been entirely idle. I had re-read the itinerary (50k a day! Day one:slightly hilly! - for some reason these two facts have stuck in the mind), I had watched a bit of the Tour de Yorkshire on the telly and I had been on Google (yes, alright, I know it's a bit rubbish)! Concerned for my various unseasoned body-parts and having been curious as to why Cavendish, Froome and Co dress in such unflattering gear I had been looking up cycling equipment. Actually anyone hacking my search history would find 'How do you stop your bum hurting on a bike?' The answer? Not, as I expected, high tech saddlery or springs but Shorts. Padded shorts to be precise. Unfortunately these things can be pretty pricey and I'm not your average cyclists shape so I was expecting to find it unlikely I'd strike gold - but I was wrong, and before I knew it there was a pair of ladies cycling boxers in my virtual shopping cart and the deed was done. Two days later (still no cycling - the rain was back, the visit to our granddaughter took precedence etc etc) a package arrived, and so did the sun. This was IT. I sneaked upstairs, squiggled into the boxers and hid them under my hiking trousers ready for the off. If I said I now know what it will feel like if I end up incontinent you'll have some idea of what I was wearing. Amazingly HRH was none the wiser and once on your bike no one would know but the sensation was, at first, rather alarming. What's more, the discreetly placed padding in this particular pair is bright pink! If I wore them inside out I'd look like one of those baboons!

My new friends!

Anyway, the caring amongst you will be wondering if they are effective and the answer is yes, thank you. Sadly this was not the end of the learning curve.

By our second outing we were a little more adventurous. The route was an 8 mile country road circuit carefully worked out by His Kindness to be sure there were minimal ups and downs. Good start. Hmmm. By the end I had sunburned shoulders, sore hands and a stiff neck. This is going to be tougher than I realised. I have yet to learn how to get into the saddle by swinging my leg over (apparently basic, essential and far less clumsy than my current mounting style!!), the gears are a bit of a mystery (What do you mean, "It's just like the gears in a car??" He clearly doesn't drive with his engine ears like I do, nor does my car feature levers and twisty knob things!) and I can't quite balance to signal that I'm turning left or right but the worst was when he said he'd better get some oil. I thought I was agreeing with him. "Yes", says I, "my brakes definitely need oiling". Well how was I to know that the one thing you don't oil on a bike is the brakes! He laughed and nearly fell off. I just fell off.

Unfamiliar terminology

Final lesson of the week: chamois cream (ah ha! I'm becoming an expert already). I was at a ball last weekend. The fundraising hosts extraordinaire are not only organising hugely successful plush dinner and disco affairs they are also joining a party cycling round Lake Malawi later in the year (see, our attempts are feeble compared to what some people achieve). Anyway, I emailed the hostess after the ball to congratulate her on the night's results and made mention of my steep learning curve. "Chamois cream" came back the advice, along with a dollop of encouragement. So I looked it up. Well ... 

There are creams for your hot spots, those that defy 'nappy rash', stuff for your sit bones, those that protect your rocks, products specially for their nuts, and even, for us girlies, menthol, antibacterial tubes of loveliness called Glide Ride! Can't wait!!! Even funnier, it's made by Hoo Ha (for your hoo ha, get it?) so from now on you'll understand the references and those that didn't drop in for this pre-read will be left wondering. Now, where are the bathroom catalogues ... I might be needing one of those massaging power potties after all. 

Until soon ....

Summing Up: Norfolk in Numbers

8 different beds

7 days' walking

99 miles

18 energy bars 

22 litres of water 

1 red kite

3 hares

8 weasels

1 squashed adder (18 inches long)

3 pairs of boots

3 blisters (all Rachel)

4 windmills

5 ice creams 

36 hiking socks worn

4lbs gained!

Endless mushrooms 

0 arguments :-

One Small Step, One Giant Leap

We left Cley on Friday morning with the sun already burning through the clouds overhead and a spring in our step, despite the guide book warning of a tough slog for the first four miles along the shingle ridge to Weybourne. I suppose one of the reasons was that achieving our goal was a tantalisingly short 13.5 miles away but also, in part, because by stepping out early we thought we could tackle nature head on and foil the rising tide. The plan was only partly successful. Our idea was that the earlier we set off, the more damp (and therefore flat) sand would still be accessible before we would be driven ever higher up onto the shingle ridge. And indeed it worked for perhaps a mile during which the magic of the crashing waves and the rising warmth of the morning drove away any negative thoughts associated with the tough conditions underfoot which we were forced to take on as the tide slowly advanced. Crunching along the ridge was, as it turned out, completely exhilarating, and indeed difficult to put into words. Few people see walking that stretch of the Coast Path as very appealing (for perhaps obvious reasons) so once again we had the world to ourselves. With green fields and the emergence of more rolling countryside to our right, wild, white waves to our left and the biggest blue sky ahead, as far as we were concerned every step was worth the leg work-out! 

Approaching Weybourne Hope and its convenient car park, human activity increased. This, it seemed, was a prime place for sea-anglers, casting from the beach. We stopped to rest for a few minutes to chat to an 'angling widow' who informed us that her husband was hopeful of a small haul of mackerel and, with luck, a sea bass which apparently enjoy the rollers. Life is such an education! 

From Weybourne the shingle gave way to cliffs, including a climb to the highest point on our combined trail at Skelding Hill, overlooking Sheringham. At times the cliff path is so eroded that it was possible to see where following in former footsteps would today lead to disaster!

Photographs looking ahead (that's HRH on the cliff top), back along the eroded pathway, and up to the high point at Skelding Hill.

Green fields, golden sands (at the bottom of those cliffs) and a huge sky,  from the top of Skelding Hill.

Sheringham was the largest town we had encountered on our journey, not that we stayed long. With now fewer than a handful of miles remaining we rested on the esplanade to enjoy a picnic (in my case a fresh local crayfish roll), and for me to kick off my boots. We sat, reflecting on the past week reviewing the highs and lows, the best bits, favoured accommodation and how lucky we had been with the weather, before the final push on to Cromer. The path diverts inland here, unable to track the cliff edge and instead led us through rising woodland, past a former Roman camp and up Long Hill before a first glimpse of Cromer was in sight. Our feeling of joy on a week well spent, a target met and the sense of achievement having walked 99 miles was topped off by being met at the end point by our friends, Ian and Ann. 

Not a great photo but there's Cromer Pier in the background! We took a few more the following morning which we think are better but in which we're looking far too clean and tidy to pretend they were at the end. 

Cromer

A Hop and a Skip to Cley (rhymes with Sky)

Wells has many good things to offer, not least a locally renowned deli. Guess where we were headed first thing this morning? I'm still determined to get my hands on some of Mrs Temple's cheeses but with two days' walking still ahead we restrained ourselves, feasted just our eyes for now and simply grabbed a sarnie before heading off, destination Cley-next-the-Sea. The locals had been up early, and we watched a haul of crab being unloaded before leaving town to follow the line of a grassy embankment through the salt marshes. 

Legend has it that a giant dog haunts this area at night and whilst it was clearly a tale put about by smugglers of old hoping to keep people off the marshes so they could have the place to themselves, the story of Black Shuck became the inspiration for Conan-Doyle's  "The Hound of the Baskervilles". Bleak it most definitely is.

Our first port of call today was Morston, normally home to just a National Trust kiosk and a quay from which boats take visitors out to Blakeney Point to see the seals but sadly, today, overrun with schoolchildren and where work to relay the car park was noisily in full swing. Managing only a tepid cup of tea in a paper cup we were soon ready to leave, hoping that Blakeney itself would be more peaceful. It was. Charming, quiet and unspoilt. 

From here the terrain changed again. Finding ourselves atop a purpose-built ridge, part sea defence and part pathway intended to discourage visitors from eroding the protected breeding grounds, the clouds soon lifted and before we knew it the most celebrated Norfolk windmill of all was visible in the distance. 

Note: Vast blue skies and not another person in sight :-)

Cley Windmill

And so to Cley-next-the-Sea. Remarkably, having anticipated a 5.00pm arrival, we found ourselves checking in at 3.15pm! It had been a lovely, easy 10.5 miles and our only complaint was that there isn't more of Cley to explore. 

Final push tomorrow. The last leg starts with 4 miles of shingle, said to be challenging, before the afternoon approach to Cromer. Blog may be delayed till Saturday as we'll be celebrating with our old friends, Ian and Ann, who have joined us this evening for dinner and with whom we'll rendezvous again tomorrow.

Ridiculous pic in the beer garden - me teaching Ann how to take a selfie (on request)! Yes, it's true, this was a genuine technical lesson.  I fear we should call this not so much 'the blind leading the blind' as 'the grin outgrinning the grin'! She'll kill me for using this. These smiles did not last. Our pals are footie fans. Apparently something dreadful happened tonight. Dur?? X

Waddling to Wells

One of the fun things about having someone else recommend and book your accommodation on trips such as these is not quite knowing what you're going to get, when you get there. HRH checks them all over, virtually, of course but we all know how deceptive websites can be. Tonight we're lodged at The Old Custom House in Wells-next-the-Sea, a Victorian 3 roomed B&B with a view out over the harbour in one direction and a pretty garden in the other. In contrast to last night (slick, modern, large hotel) here we have a four poster, a squashy sofa on which I'm sitting writing this, shutters at the windows, a corner bath and the biggest aspidistra in the world! Quaint* 

Today's walking has been equally varied. Late morning we set out across Deepdale Marshes, buffeted by the sea breezes, making conversation almost impossible. It has to be said this terrain is not the most inspiring, given that we're not big ornithologists. We did try though. On arriving in Burnham Overy Staithe (yes, that's a real place name) we headed for The Hero, named after Horatio Nelson who was born nearby, for a swift half, and fired up Google.

"So what do you think that black and white one was?"

"Don't know. I'll look it up. Do you mean the one that went gerraw?

"No, the one that went pip pip"

"Hmmm. Looks like it might have been an oyster catcher. Did it have a red bill?"

"Couldn't possibly say, without my glasses."

"Ok. Let's just say it wasn't a seagull. That much we know". 

See what I mean? Hopeless!

The windmill there was nice though (note: rather gloomy skies. Shame.)

And before leaving the subject of birds, I must just add in a few lines about the 'proper' twitchers. Our curiosity was piqued when we encountered an increasing number of people walking towards us carrying serious photographic hardware. It soon became apparent that a group were collecting up ahead, staring out across Overy Creek. I couldn't help myself.

"Excuse me? What is everyone looking at?"

"Apparently a Speckled Warbler has been spotted. It was here yesterday".

"Oh, ok. Thank you. Is that rare?"

"Yes. Normally they're seen in Australia"

"Ah. Well good luck"

I relayed this to HRH.

"What did you tell them?", he says, "That there was one on the menu in last night's restaurant?" Charming!

Soon afterwards we left marshland behind us for a complete change underfoot. Holkham Beach is possibly the longest, widest, most unspoiled in the UK and deserves every accolade it has been awarded. Thankfully the tide was out so we were able to stroll along the damp sand, avoiding the dunes which can be both energy and muscle sapping. As it was, the satisfying crunch at the tide line along millions of washed up razor shells, with a break for a picnic lunch along the way, was delightful. 

The early afternoon stretch found us once again off the beach and following a lovely three mile path through pine woods planted to reinforce the sea defenses, known as Holkham Meals, and culminating at Abraham's Bosom Lake (you couldn't make these names up). 

A swift ice cream later and we were back on the sands for the photo opportunity of the day: gorgeous, aren't they? 

And so to the final push inland along the harbour and into Wells, described in our guide as "a traditional seaside town with a split personality". We've decided we rather like both of them, and especially the village green, The Buttlands! 

*Personally I could do without the practical and hardwearing sisal on the floor which is painful to walk on with sore feet but HRH looks so content, and the views are gorgeous so I'm happy to hobble.

Diss Was Just The Beginning

Once upon a time, many moons ago, Stephen and I spent a memorable few days in Diss. June 17th was particularly special so we thought we might combine celebrating our return to Norfolk with the achievement that was finishing Peddars Way and starting the second half of our week's walking, along the Norfolk Coastal Path. It probably should have been champagne. It wasn't. Bet some of you get our choices at the end of 19.5 miles* the wrong way round. Cheers.

By the time we went down for dinner a short while ago, our sense of humour had returned. An hour previously we were ready to commit atrocities had someone told us our room wasn't ready or if it had been poky with patterned carpets and a feeble shower. Fortunately it was, it hasn't and it doesn't :-) The White Horse in Brancaster/Burnham Market was Norfolk Hotel of the Year 2014 and a more welcome sight I have never seen. I was so exhausted on the final stretch that when HRH (always 25 feet in front of me, you understand) suddenly stopped and looked inland from the reed beds where we were walking,  my gaze followed his, my balance was lost ... and I promptly toppled over! It wasn't funny at the time - but I suspect other diners wondered what on earth we were crying with laughing about later. 

This morning we set off at 9.30am, ticked off the final Songline Sculpture and 2 hours later had completed Peddars Way and arrived at the coast. 

From Holme next the Sea we had first to head west to Hunstanton, only to retrace our steps to follow the Norfolk Coast Path from its start, our ultimate destination next Saturday being Cromer. 

Hunstanton, or Sunny Hunny as it is known locally, boasts the most amazing striped cliffs and a charming former lighthouse and ruined chapel on the headland but not a lot else to hold our attention, intent as we were on achieving our mega mission before nightfall, so we didn't stay long. 

And so began the (at times) tortuous remaining 6 - 7 hour walk to finish this, our longest day. The camera came out less and less frequently as spirits began to flag but tomorrow, as they say, is another day. Half the distance to cover, a blissfully late start planned, and more fine, dry weather forecast. Destination Wells next the Sea .... Until then :-) 

* HRH has just told me that with some of the faffing about we did in Hunstanton this should probably have read 20+. I've told him a million times not to exaggerate ;-)

A Very 'Straightforward' Day

Welcome to Monday and a few words from one of our nation's best-loved philosophers/meteorologists (not):

"There are holes in the sky where the rain gets in, but they're ever so small that's why rain is thin." 

I was reminded of these profound and much-loved words as we set off from Castle Acre on a rather overcast Monday morning. The challenges ahead were threefold:

1. Maintaining motivation and interest on what was essentially a die-straight 15 mile route

2. Finding somewhere to buy lunch 

3. Accepting that at some stage the horrible, latex-lined waterproof trousers might have to make an appearance.

It has to be said that the route was not looking very promising for either 1 or 2 and the forecast equally dodgy where 3 was concerned. 

Here's our route (note absence of villages or indeed any real civilisation along the way!) - see what I mean about straight?

The guide book was furthermore keen to underline the lack of any facilities insisting that the only sensible thing to do was to ensure provisions were on board before setting off for the coming stretch. Reassuringly (?) there was a Costcutter general store indicated en route out of the village. The fact that I ended up with a distinctly unappealing tuna on white and HRH had to resort to a cheese pasty says it all, so I was reassured when he also bagged a twin Snickers - until he met my excited grin with a "for when you get tired and grumpy later", stashing it promptly out of temptation's way in his backpack! Charming!*

(These photos were taken mid morning. Top left: The view ahead. Top right: The view behind where you can just see HRH in the distance. See what I mean about straight?) 

Spike Millican was undoubtedly a genius and I always loved his verse but he never quite came up with a word for that thinnest of thin rain, did he? Its more like wet air, but whatever you call it, sadly it was either waterproofs on against the insidious dampness or risk a very uncomfortable, long day and potentially soggy shorts, so on they went. 

As it turned out the route proved less of a concern than was feared. The fields of barley and potatoes gave way to broad beans, wheat and uncultivated meadow the further north we travelled. Clearly the increasingly sandy soil is better suited to different agricultural choices and make for a more rolling countryside so, despite the lack of a need to navigiate, the walking was actually very pleasant indeed, especially once the sun came out after lunch. 

We also became more aware of the emerging flint underfoot. Flint is typical of the geological heritage of the area which, much like the South Downs and Sussex, consists largely of a bedrock of chalk covered by thin deposits of sand and said flint. In prehistoric times it assured the development of the area by early man and even today features heavily in local construction. HRH particularly likes this house style. I asked him what it was about the look that he liked so much. 

"Errrm, just the flintiness"

"The flintiness?" What about it exactly?"

"I don't know. The randomness I suppose"

"How do you mean, the randomness"

"Not sure. I just like it"

He's from Hampshire. There must be something in the water.

 

The only other highlights of the day were ... completely missing the fourth Songline, despite the guidebook describing it as 'striking' (I've subsequently looked it up on t'interweb - it's not),  our first glimpse of a traditional windmill, far on the horizon.......

.... and the luxury that awaited us in the form of Magazine Wood. Unfortunately I lied earlier, unwittingly. Sorry folks. Amanda Holden used to own the cottage next door - our host admitted as she drove us to the pub that her welcome pack needs updating. Ms Holden now lives in The Cotswolds! 

Tomorrow is The Big One - 19.5 miles. TTFN x

* I almost didn't get that Snickers either. I forgot to get tired and grumpy (must be walking myself fitter) ... But we shared it anyway, as a reward for completing our very straightforward day :-)