Amanita muscaria toadstool in the woods at Walberswick
Is it wrong to think that one of the benefits of living in Essex is that you can easily escape to the next county (or two) up?
We went to Lowestoft to visit Rich’s mum, and spent much of Saturday in Norwich. I’ve always liked Norwich – particularly the market – but we don’t get to go often from Chelmsford. Perhaps that’s why it’s still special.
Anyhow, we did the usual – wandered around the shops, looked at the river, went to see Rich’s old college and watched the puppet man from a table outside Starbucks. It was quite nice to see him there as we both thought we’d seen something on the BBC about him retiring on the news a couple of years ago. Turns out we were right. I guess he had second thoughts.
Like that? Check out his YouTube channel.
Anyhow, that was Saturday. On Sunday, after a lazy morning of breakfast and cards, we headed out to Blythburgh, and a walk in the woods at Walberswick. They’ve just kidnapped a herd/flock/pod of 26 ponies from Dartmoor and released them in the woods, and over the course of two hours we spotted 17 of them. Not a bad rate considering the density of the trees when you get away from the paths.
They were so friendly they were happy to be tickled and stroked and have their picture taken at very close quarters.
Despite it being a pine forest, which keeps its greens throughout the year, the air felt distinctly autumnal. The sun went down quickly, the air cooled, and the damp, shady parts were home to a generous crop of brilliant red toadstools. The seasons are changing.
Dartmoor pony at Walberswick
We were so lucky with the weather. After half a week of moving Rich’s belongings from Ipswich to Chelmsford, we took off with the tent and two camping virgins for the north Norfolk coast.
Our pitch, it turned out, was still a pig farm four years ago, but some judicious turfing, hedge-planting and building of shower blocks had erased any memory of the site’s previous use. Now it’s just a clearing in the woods rubbed bare in parts by muddy feet and waxy groundsheets.
We were trying out a new tent. Our two-man home-from-home is fine for short breaks, but we both wanted to be able to stand up inside (which it won’t let you do), so had upgraded to a six-man one that turned out to be so big you could easily park two large cars inside and still have room for a clutch of bikes on either side. It had three rooms and a cavernous living area in the middle that was so tall and wide it developed its own ecosystem. We woke up each morning to the sound of rain, not on the outside of our canvas, but falling from the inner surface of the dome. Still, it meant we had plenty of room for carrying in the table each night to eat and play cards in the light of our wind-up lanterns, so long as we sat there wrapped up in jumpers, coats and blankets and didn’t spend too much time envying the caravan owners lounging in their t-shirts.
It’s a long time since I last camped in north Norfolk, but very little seems to have changed. Sheringham is still campaigning against Tesco, and the steam train still runs from there to Holt. We caught it on Saturday afternoon and walked into the town. The coast was lost in a fog the whole way there and back, but in Holt itself the sun was bright and hot enough for us to sit outside at eat lunch. As we had done with breakfast each morning, and for fudgey snacks on the beach in the afternoon.
It was probably the last weekend of summer, symbolically capped by a burst of heavy rain as we finished folding the enormous tent back into the car yesterday afternoon.
I suspect it will also be our last (and first) weekend of camping this year. Perhaps in April we can dig out the enamelled mugs and bowls again. In the meantime, we finished off the trip by watching Carry on Camping last night, having forgotten how little of it is actually set on a camp site.
