Hunstanton - red cliffs and legs eleven

Hunstanton - correctly pronounced 'Hunston', although I heard nobody saying that - has a unique distinction: it's the only seaside town in Norfolk that faces west. It's therefore the only place in the county from which to see a proper sunset. Hoping to witness one, I went there twice on my recent holiday.

The first occasion was something of a damp squib. I have a personal maxim that goes 'make the effort, and you'll be rewarded' - a similar saying to 'who dares wins' - and I'm usually keen to follow it, because more often than not I will get that reward. But not this time.

I'm not new to Hunstanton. I first went there on a day trip in October 1992, when sharing a late-season weekend break with Mum and Dad, and then again and again in the years that followed, usually just passing through and having a quick look. It's always struck me as a bright and breezy place, with very much the same kind of atmosphere as the north Kent coastal resorts - that is, a somewhat brash seafront, but with quietly attractive, leafy streets just a little way off. Hunstanton is the kind of place most people would consider a decent retirement spot. And it has an edge on the north Kent resorts: there is a big green open space right in the heart of the town, seen here in this evening shot, with a red-painted sea mine in the foreground:

But this was on my second visit. No such sunshine when I first went there. I parked for nothing up a side-street I knew, then walked northwards past the seafront gardens towards Old Hunstanton. I had in mind returning along the foot of the cliffs. At that point, there was no telling whether the sun would come out, or whether it would start spitting with rain.

First objective: the old lighthouse. There it was, not seen since 1992, and looking completely unchanged. I took a shot for the record, but to make it 'interesting' I played around with the brightness, contrast and colour on my laptop, arriving at this:

That's dreadfully contrived - but to my mind more exciting than the real thing:

But there was no need to sex up the cliff pictures that followed. Hunstanton is famous for its Red Cliffs. These are made of Cretaceous sediments, a 'red' layer of compacted Lower Cretaceous clay overlain by white chalk. It looks like a red cake with white icing. The red layer is thin at Old Hunstanton, but thickens as one walks south towards the town centre. It erodes easily, and persons walking along the beach underneath the cliffs are warned to take care, as there are overhangs and falls are frequent. I did take care. It was a pity that the rain, at first just half-hearted, pulled itself together and settled into a steady drizzle. But I still got some worthwhile shots:

A temporary cave!

Hmm. At this half-way point in my walk the rain was just beginning to get bothersome. And I had to take care as the stony beach got wetter - I didn't want to slip and knock my head on a rock, like I did in Cornwall last April!

The remains of some unfortunate vessel, driven onto the shore in a storm years ago. The north Norfolk coast has almost no safe harbours.

Plenty of cliff falls! There seemed to be more of them as I went on. At the centre of Hunstanton, near where the pier was before a storm destroyed it, the rain became even worse:

I felt mildly waterlogged, but persevered with my camera, securing this shot inside the 'Family Leisure Centre' building:

It beats me what fun can actually be had in such a place. Perhaps those with vacant minds find it diverting. The notion of an entire family going in, with everyone, from Grandfather down to Newest Toddler, feeding coins into the amusement machines - and totally enjoying themselves - is scary. Of course the operators make free use of the word 'family' in order to make their gambling operation (for that's what it is) seem respectable and even wholesome. Tut, tut, I say. I know that in the main only adolescents frequent these places. And that if I went inside I would not only feel desperately uncomfortable and out of place, I would actually look all wrong, and Management might ask me to leave before I put off their usual clientele. Suits me.

I was really very damp by the time I got back to Fiona, and had to sit on a blanket I always carry in the boot. Never mind, within half an hour I was back at the caravan and dry.

A few evenings later, I came back. This time there was strong sunshine - although dark clouds were gathering! But they simply added drama to my shots. I wanted to capture the brash, kiss-me-quick, funfair side of Hunstanton. I left Fiona in the big car park built over where the railway station had once been, before the line was closed fifty years ago. Only the old coal office was still left, and one signal set to 'danger'.

I set off along the sea front, in search of brashness. 

These shots of the Bingo Hall would have been better if I'd recorded the smooth microphone tones of the caller, apparently speaking to nobody that I could see. Presumably, to make play worthwhile at all, he did have at least two old ladies faithfully marking their cards. Were they perhaps two fat ladies? That used to be 'number 88' in old Bingo parlance. I suppose that nowadays it's regarded as mildly offensive, and you never hear it. Nor 'blind 50' or 'blind 80'. But surely you still hear 'legs 11...two little ducks, 22...66, clickty-click...sweet 16, and never been kissed...key of the door, 21...on its own, number 1...' 

I haven't played Bingo since holidaying with Mum, Dad and brother Wayne at Butlin's in Barry Island in 1968. And then only because I had a mild crush on Someone Else, who also attended. I can easily think of more interesting ways of passing holiday time.

There wasn't an awful lot more to see. 

British Seaside Resorts are not what they used to be. The simple, unsophisticated pleasures have vanished. I grew up in Barry, which, over at its seafront at the Cold Knap, had a pebble beach, a park with boats, a lido, crazy golf, and Bindles, a one-time smart night spot which was still a daytime cafeteria. And that was all. Barry Island, which the hoards from Cardiff made for, had sandy beaches and a famous funfair, but the funfair was entirely traditional and would cut no ice today. If you go to Barry Island now, you will see only a poor shadow of what once was. And the old Butlin's site is but a scruffy car park, overgrown with weeds. 

Even so, the sea views remain. And Hunstanton certainly gets its share of good sunsets. 

The visible sea in the picture above was mostly The Wash. Somewhere off to the right centre in the photo, across The Wash, was Skegness, Lincolnshire's premier resort. A lot of people sneer at Skegness, but I don't. For some strange reason, to do with seaside nostalgia, I find it fascinating. At some point in the next couple of years I want to take the caravan to the Lincolnshire Wolds (not visited since May 2006) and if I do, I'll have a fresh look at bracing Skegness. Meanwhile, here's a 1998 shot of three people contemplating the crowds and the general buzz on the town's immense beach:

Somewhere off to the right centre in this photo, across The Wash, was Hunstanton, west Norfolk's premier resort. A lot of people sneer at Hunstanton, but I don't. For some strange reason, to do with seaside nostalgia, I find it fascinating.

A Right Royal Railway Station - and the possible fate of Lord Lucan

While in Norfolk, I was pitched very near Sandringham House, one of the Queen's two country residences, the other being Balmoral Castle up in Scotland. In fact the Caravan Club site was actually on part of the Sandringham Estate, discreetly hidden from view in woodland. As indeed was the rival Camping & Caravanning Club's site not far off. I reckoned the Sandringham Estate had a lot of clout hereabouts, and could insist on all the local roads looking neat and tidy and exactly like private forest drives - no advertising, and only essential national road signs and markings, in order that the entire locality should look uncluttered. It made it hard to find the Caravan Club site entrance, because there was no sign to tell you that you were approaching it - no sign was allowed! But one got used to this, and became adept at recognising a particular unmarked gravel driveway.

This part of Norfolk - the extreme north-west - used to have rather poor roads. But there was a handy railway line from King's Lynn to Hunstanton, and visiting royalty and their guests could make use of the station at Wolferton. It wasn't of course for their exclusive use, but it became a special 'Royal Station' nevertheless. They even doubled the track as far as Wolferton, so that the many Royal trains wouldn't disrupt the regular service for locals and holidaymakers. The station faithfully served the Sandringham Estate until the line closed in 1966. On my first evening there, I went to look at it. I'd vaguely heard that it was well-preserved, and worth seeing.

And so it was. Wolferton itself is still a very rural, straggling village with pretty cottages and the odd big house. This is heath country, separating the salt marshes by the sea from the farmland inland. It was all pretty quiet. But I wasn't the only casual visitor at the station, and two gardeners were doing their stuff there, tending the immaculate flower beds and hedges. The station was now part private home, part daytime Museum. The Museum bit employed the gardeners. But the private home part blended in quite well, apart from a privacy fence, to give a fine overall impression. Only the old railway tracks between the platforms were absent: the space had been filled with more garden. Apart from that, it looked all set up to receive a Royal Train at any moment.

The fenced-off section of platform on the right indicated where the private house was. The station buildings were built in a neo-Tudor style, conforming with the general style for all lodges and outbuildings on the Estate. It must have seemed that the Royal Family actually 'owned' the station, and all commoners had better behave themselves! 

The door leads to the Station Master's dwelling. He had to be on hand for all Royal Trains, rose in buttonhole, his uniform immaculate, his manner obsequious and correct. It was his special concern to see that the station looked superbly spruce and tidy and Bristol Fashion in every way, and that all was efficiently handled. If anything were amiss - if perhaps a member of his team looked unshaven or slovenly, or if a flower required dead-heading, or a bush some clipping, or if there were dirt or a stain on the red carpet - then he would get a withering stare from the King or Queen, and a cold letter to follow from some equerry or secretary. Not a job to envy!

A pity about the 'privacy fence'. But the rest of the station conjured up the full 'Royal Station' feeling. 

I'd entered through a gate from the road, and not via the proper driveway. So I saw the Tudor-style 'front' of the station only after first examining the platforms. The twee little box bushes were clearly the gardeners' pride and joy.

A short distance away was a small building full of railway paraphernalia, mostly signs:

Something was missing: signals, for one. And what about the signal box? Well, that was still there, but across the road, on the other side of the level crossing. And a short section of double-track was preserved there too.

It wasn't a stand-alone building, either. Very unusually, it was tacked onto the end of a row of Tudorish cottages:

And that's nearly all, folks. But just up the road was the village sign, depicting a man in medieval attire being attacked and eaten by a big wolf: 

  

Clearly these were wild parts in days of yore! 

The thought of wolves attacking a visiting Royal Party must have given the Wolferton Station Master the screaming ab-dabs. No doubt he hustled them all, in double-quick time, into the comfortable reception suites at the station, so that the wolves - driven by hunger, and bold enough to snatch victims from the very platforms - wouldn't make a meal out of his succulent charges. I don't suppose the wolves cared: there were always the ordinary folk to feast upon.

How they kept these tragedies out of the newspapers I do not know. Perhaps Royal Strings were pulled. I rather fancy that a similar spot of bad luck - being torn to pieces by wolves - was the fate of Lord Lucan in 1974, whose body was never discovered. Fleeing from a murder in London, he must have turned up here at night, only to find himself surrounded by a ravenous pack. It's a fascinating theory. See, anyway, the known facts at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Bingham,_7th_Earl_of_Lucan.

The holiest place in all England 3

This write-up of my visit to Little Walsingham in Norfolk is becoming an exhausting marathon! One final spurt then, and then wrap it up.

The trouble is, there was so much to see there that was worth attention. It was no ordinary village. And despite the all-pervading religiosity of the place, I liked its atmosphere far better than, say, pretty village-greened Burnham Market a few miles to the north-west, which I thought was much too self-consciously posh and trendy for its own good - full of shops that only Home Counties people with Range Rovers and super incomes would want to buy from.

Burnham Market was pandering to an elite. The poor locals! Where were they, anyway, the ordinary folk? Were they subject to a strict curfew that kept them off the streets until these Home Counties people had pushed off for cappuccinos or cocktails elsewhere? I regarded them with half-amused eyes, these visitors and incomers from Buckinghamshire and the more select parts of Hertfordshire. Apparently all of Bucks was cool. But Herts residents had to be circumspect, describing their home location as vaguely 'north of London', just in case you linked them with those dreadful people in Hemel Hempstead. Anyway, there they were: aggressively parking their big cars, hogging the sunny seats outside the cafés, and talking over-loudly in accents heard here only from April to August.

It's no secret that I'm comfortably off for a single pensioner, but my income isn't large enough to keep up with them, even if I wished to. It isn't even large enough to do away with micro-managing my money, which remains a daily necessity. I still have to plan my annual expenditure very carefully. I certainly can't afford it all. I have to choose between one thing to the exclusion of another. Small stuff isn't a problem. And I can usually pay for meals out whenever I want. But I can't go on a mad spree, nor shrug my shoulders carelessly at some big, sudden expense out of the blue.

So I haven't lost a feeling for what money is worth, and what is worth buying. If ever I were so well-heeled that my lifestyle became totally self-indulgent, and no expense could worry me, then I think I would lose something important, to do with personal values, and what ought to be a priority.

Having money can be highly pleasant, of course. But if you let too much money shield you from bad sights and bad smells, real or metaphoric, then I think moral atrophy sets in. The Scandinavian idea that everyone should enjoy a high standard of living, but nobody should be super-rich, makes some sense to me. Having enough money - a really decent amount, not just the so-called 'living wage' - allows abundant personal choice, and a satisfying life. But having too much robs you of good judgement, because waste does not matter. If you can afford whatever you want, whenever you want, and you can replace it once it gets boring or last-year, then I'm certain that life becomes 'easy-come, easy-go', and possibly rather meaningless. How can you treasure anything, if buying it entailed no sacrifice and no effort?

I spent £1,600-odd on the laptop I'm typing this post on. For me that's affordable, but it's still an awful lot of money. I cut my holidays back, and postponed buying some other stuff until next year, or the year after that, in order to find the cash. But in consequence I savour my new laptop keenly, and will look after it, and certainly keep it for years to come. The same with all the other big-ticket things I have gradually acquired. For me, nothing this expensive is 'easy-come, easy-go'.

To be sure, more income - let's suppose another £10,000 a year - would be very handy. It would enhance what I do now, and let me restore the family fortune. But what would I do with £100,000 a year? I would just save most of it - and then probably worry about where it was invested, and what might happen to me if it were somehow wiped out or stolen.

Spending it wouldn't be the answer. A relentless life of selfish luxury would either bore me or sicken me. I wouldn't want to try exotic or dangerous sports. I wouldn't want fancy jewellery. I already have a nice home, and a nice car, and all those smaller things that contribute to a comfortable and interesting life. There's nothing much I'd hanker after, and there's no compelling reason to buy better stuff than I have already.

A really big income would of course buy me worldwide travel opportunities. But many parts of the world are not safe, and the logistics of travel have become tedious. I'd enjoy a cruise, but most definitely not flying. And medical considerations limit me anyway. Above all, I can't buy time. Travel would take me out of circulation and away from other things I need time to enjoy, such as the company of friends. I don't want to be absent for months.

So when I studied the well-off Home Counties people sunning themselves, posing fit to burst, and spending cash (should I say wasting cash?) in overpriced shops designed to take money off them, I couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for them. They seemed trapped in a life devoted to spending. My own life had its limitations, but essentially I was as free as a bird, and not part of a pretentious peer group with particular expectations or standards of the kind promoted in glossy magazines. The small things I did with my life meant a lot to me, because I had to invent them all for myself, and give them personal thought and effort. The lives of those Burnham Market flâneurs and coquettes looked a lot less satisfying. They seemed carefree, but there was clearly a cost, and they were not simply paying with their plastic cards.  

I sound smug and self-righteous, and maybe I am. Certainly it was impossible not to feel great satisfaction - positive schadenfreude even - when Nature temporarily put a stop to all the loud talk and posing with a suddenly black sky and the mother of all thunderstorms, complete with big hailstones. Winter-sized hailstones in early July! All the glitterati huddled for shelter under trees (unwise, of course) or shop awnings (the ones on the edge getting very damp), their coffees abandoned.

By then I was back in Fiona, dry and warm. I was aware of, but ignored, some impatient self-important man wanting my plum space by the village green. Let him wait. I brushed my hair and yawned. By and by he drove away in a distinctly marked manner. Only then did I fire up Fiona. Moving off, I noticed that another predator had immediately slid into my parking space. What a cut-throat business it must be, parking a car in Burnham Market!

Despite its undoubted visual attractions - it was quite photogenic in bits - sophisticated Burnham Market repelled me. Little Walsingham made me want to return, even if it needed nimble footwork to sidestep its insistent religious embrace. Back to that village then.

Emerging - I should say escaping - from the Anglican Shrine complex, I found many more signs that Little Walsingham was a very holy place, and welcomed pilgrims. One house had a palm leaf - like the shell, a pilgrim's emblem:

There were also some front doors that incorporated little figures of the Lady:

Amid such things, it was almost a jolt to come across the village supermarket, and next to it the old Oddfellows Hall:

No doubt, voting in the recent EU Referendum had taken place here.

I encountered a man on a street corner, who revealed in the course of twenty minute's conversation that he'd moved there with his family three years before. So far, he felt he had done a wise thing. Noticing that I liked to take photos, he directed me to the Anglican Parish Church. He remarked that it looked bog-standard on the outside, but inside, well, I'd have a surprise.

Yes, bog-standard, though picturesque enough. I went in.

Gosh. The place had had a modern makeover. A display on a side wall explained that it was gutted by fire in 1961, and rebuilt, the reconsecration taking place in 1964. Well, the decor was a mixture of the very simple and the very rich, with some large figures to assist:

Another high-Anglican church, then. There was even a striking icon, showing Jesus with hypnotic eyes, very powerful I thought:

At least I didn't feel like a sneak thief, furtively going in, taking my shots, and hastening out. I took my time, and felt moderately encouraged on emerging:

What now? Wells-next-the-Sea was calling. I decided to take a swift look at the Methodist Church, pass by the Roman Catholic Parish Church, then seek out the Russian Orthodox Chapel. The first was tucked away off the main south street: 

It didn't appeal. I didn't go in. The Catholic Parish Church was a very modern affair, also tucked away, and again I didn't venture inside:

The Russian Orthodox Chapel was not so easy to find. It involved leaving the heart of the village and walking up a road towards where the old railway station had been. In fact it was the old railway station - but transformed with an onion-shaped dome. How interesting! They had preserved the exterior, including the old platform, and had developed a garden at the rear. 

Visitors were welcomed. What lay within?

Immediately inside was a long room with information like this stuck on the walls. (Click on any of the shots to enlarge them) Clearly the railway heritage meant a lot here. Many pilgrims had come by train up to 1964, when the line was closed. There was also much information on the history of the Chapel, and the significance of icons in Orthodox worship. For instance:

A few clues here. What the word says, the image shows us silently; what we have heard, we have seen...The invisible reveals itself in the visible...The icon makes the silence visible. I understood a little better. 

There was an open door, and inside a larger room full of icons.  

It beckoned, but I didn't go in. I could have; it was all utterly silent; there was nobody there. But I didn't want to intrude. And taking photos was out of the question. The hypnotic eyes in each icon forbade it. I put away my camera and retreated, and made my way back to Fiona. 

An ice-cream at Wells would be nice! I now set my heart on that, and on seeing the sea. If I was lucky, the tide would be in. It was. Another post.