Next the Sea

East Anglian countryside is wonderfully varied as a drive north from Cambridge shows. Yes, Cambridgeshire is green and beautiful, but it is Fen-flat so only rarely are you treated to a good view. There are other things to bring a smile to the face though. The first was driving past the village of Fakenham which sounds like an ancient Saxon curse, and on north through sumptuous poppy-fields of the Brecks and vistas of gnarled Scots Pines with their backs bent against the prevailing winds. On again through Little Snoring – there really is a village called Little Snoring, as well as Great Snoring, and sleepy places they do seem to be.

 

Scanning the map en route, there are a great number of Norfolk and Suffolk villages with an ing in the name, often in the middle: like Sandringham. Ing means “son of” so that when a Saxon chieftain’s son set up his own settlement (a ham), his father’s village might be called Wallsham and his son’s – usually within five miles – would be Wallsingham, but often the father’s settlement will have disappeared over time.

The roads of North Norfolk are a delight to drive. There are plenty of surprises too. We paused at the 12th century castle that gives Castle Acre its name. The crumbling walls are now decorated by Dog Roses and many of the rest of the fortifications are now covered with lush grass, forming banks that are still challengingly steep to ascend. It is an atmospheric place.

Often the roads cut through woodland so lush that the trees form a tunnel. Journey times aren’t fast but being behind the wheel is so much more enjoyable than motorway driving. Our target on this trip was the windmill that is a cosy hotel at Cley Next the Sea – a fine spot to savour the squalls and brooding clouds coming off the ocean. Here too there are fine sea-marshes which made me recall the excellent atmospheric novel by Jeremy Page – Salt – that had me wanting to go out and find some samphire to nibble. Instead we ‘made do’ with some delicious piquant lavender bread from the Cley deli.



looking out from the old quay to the sea defences and the sea itself - about a mile away



Yellow horned poppies and looking back towards Cley across the salt-marshes

 

 

 

the windmill that is a hotel

Cley hasn't actually been "next the sea" since the 17th century; it is about a mile away these days. Striding through the salt-marshes towards the sea though we were treated to views of avocet, hilariously hyperactive plovers and even a Marsh Harrier getting mobbed by 30 or 40 wading birds as it flew off with one of them – probably a shelduck. The high point though was a boat trip from Blakeney to the colony of Grey and Common Seals. It was cold and windy but the occasional faceful of seawater only added to the adventure.

The two species of seals co-exist contentedly. The much larger 'roman-nosed' Grey Seals produce their pups around Christmas time so their youngsters were already huge. Some of the bulls are truly massive: they weigh up to 250kg. The smaller Common Seals have more attractive faces and are due to give birth around about now. The adult males reach a maximum weight of about 120kg. Both species have the most endearing undulating-fat-rippling means of moving on land.

 



How can lying like a banana possibly be restful?



Seal life seems to be about eating and sleeping



Some of the youngsters were a bit nervous as the boat approached but not for long



This seal seemed really interested in close up views of us

 

Put them in a Tree Museum

Last month I found myself driving out east from Cambridge, and I looked out for signs that winter was on the run. Circling buzzards broke off from spiralling lazily to play and tease each other. Reproduction was on their minds. I drove out by Six Mile Bottom, Dullingham and through the mysterious Devil's Ditch, then past Snailwell and the rude-sounding Frekenham.

East Anglian landscape is dramatic for the intense feeling of freedom and space. Big horizons were especially impressive against skeletal trees. Only the stately Scots Pines wore any green.

But then my reverie was interrupted with a jolt.

First I saw magisterial Scots Pines wearing yellow bands, at waist-level. They'd been sentenced and awaited execution. Further on yellow machines assaulted the landscape, tearing up the rich black soil to make way for a wider highway to make it easier for us to rush from one end of the country to the other in endless pointless journeys.

England is crowded and I often find myself wondering what it was like in those days when our population numbered thousands, not millions, when the land could breathe and wasn't waterproofed by swathes of concrete and tarmac.

All we seem to have left now are tiny scraps of green, and even these are unnatural. They have been cleared and ploughed and ravaged, then in a few places have been allowed (or rather neglected enough) to struggle back to life again.

It's showing my age but I found Joni Mitchell's song going around in my head...

They took all the trees
And put them in a tree museum
Then they charged the people
A dollar and a half just to see 'em
Don't it always seem to go,
That you don't know what you've got
'Til it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

Hey farmer, farmer
Put away that DDT now
Give me spots on my apples
But LEAVE me the birds and the bees
Please!
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
'Til its gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

The Wilds of East Anglia

Driving ESE from Cambridge last night, heading through that corner of East Anglia where you randomly pass in and out and in again of three counties, I glimpsed something ahead on the dark horizon. It radiated a warm glow. The skies were almost clear after the day’s terrific rainstorms. The only clouds were misty streaks.

Cottages, trees and hedgerows obscured the glow, and I wondered if it had been some trick of reflected light from within my car. Then I caught another glimpse. This time I could see it was an orb, easily three times the size of the full moon.

I thought of nuclear powerplants, early warning installations or even some ghastly illuminated erection to celebrate the Olympics. The next time I saw it, I made out the mottling of craters of a not-quite full moon glowing a gorgeous orange as it rose with astonishing beauty to light up the night.

Then on the River Cam this morning, the rain that we’ve all cursed so long and loud has given life to the creatures we share this planet with. It’s cleared the water so that terns come spear-fishing, plunging down from on high. Damsel-flies of jewel-brilliant emerald and sapphire cavorted and dipped along the luxuriant grassy banks doing amazing nuptial dances, in-flight insemination, while a humourless sentinel heron batted not an eye.

Live shows are always more atmospheric than anything recorded but am I alone in thinking that nature in all its glory still surpasses anything that TV or the film industry can show us?

Sunset over the Fens at Welney