This started life as a series of Facebook posts to cheer people up during lockdown, and has slowly transformed into this draft for a book I'm writing. Any donations will help me complete the other chapters and produce more paintings to complete the illustration. To whet your appetite, here is the draft of the East Anglia leg of my virtual UK tour - but be warned there is one mild adult reference in it...
East Anglia
Its mid morning when we meet up in London, Liverpool Street station. The rush hour crowds have gone and things have slowed to a more relaxed pace, including our train, which slinks gracefully away. Its a gentle meander through the suburbs of East London, slowly picking up speed as we ease away from the city. It would be easy to sit back and watch Essex, Suffolk and Norfolk trundle by all the way to Norwich, but then we wouldn’t have seen much of East Anglia. Don’t get too comfortable as well be getting off soon.
The train slows as we cross the viaduct over a large park. Its the approach to Chelmsford, and the first stop on our trip. Inviting though the park looks, a minibus awaits to whisk us away from the town and through the Essex countryside to Maldon instead. There are some old sailing barges moored there, but lunch beckons, and a picnic has been arranged for Heybridge Basin. Its a popular spot, with two pubs, a sea wall and the lock gate guarding the entrance to a stretch of canal and offering plenty of room to sit and balance your pint. There are plenty of grassy areas too. People spread out, soaking up the sun, and the contents of their pint glasses. Our spot overlooks the basin, which at low tide (as it is) resembles more of a mud bath. A man rows across the deep gloop to reach his yacht, moored out in the water, but otherwise all is still beyond the shore.
With stomachs full and lunch packed away its back to the minibus for the short hop to Colchester. Its built up a lot since we were last there, but the flint walled castle and its pretty rose gardens remain. We would visit, but a train awaits. Its not the Clacton one. We could go there and visit the pier with its seaside amusements, and event pay for some doughnuts with the added entertainment of watching them being made. The assistant drops lumps of dough on a conveyor, which dips into hot oil for a set time, and then drops them into a pile of cinnamon sugar some five minutes later.
Our train is the one that splits off from the Clacton one, heading to Walton in the Naze via ‘posh’ Frinton. I once remarked to a brash Glaswegian work colleague that if you turn the map upside down it does indeed look like a naze (or nose), to which he remarked “I suppose thats why they call it The Crooked Penis of Stranrear” referring to a landscape of which he was more familiar. He was joking of course, but that evening I went home and studied the map, and well – take a look for yourself. It does look a bit…
Anyway a few more anecdotes later and the train pulls into Walton. Along the shore are a string of typical seaside shops selling buckets and spades, inflatable unicorns and all manner of sweets and treats. We pass them as we head for a walk along the shore and along the snout of ‘The Naze’. As we leave the busy resort behind we are left with a gritty beach with wading birds and a grassy bank broken by several dried up creeks. At high tide these fill, splitting the land into a series of little islands, but that is some hours off. We return well before then and board the train back to Colchester for an overnight stay.
Next morning, when the early rush has once again passed, its back on the express train, but only as far as the Essex border at Manningtree. We are not stopping for customs, or even a pint in the real ale bar on the platform (as many in the party would wish). We are off on another short walk, following the river Stour inland just a mile to a familiar scene. Its easily recognised as Flatford Mill, painted by Constable a couple of centuries ago. The view has been preserved so we recognise it, yet its not the same. The water is a lot narrower than depicted, and there is no sign of the activity that gives the painting much of its interest. By chance we have the same turbulent cumulus clouds though! A couple of fields away is Dedham Lock, but some in the party are a little nervous. There are cows in the fields and they are bigger than us. But of course nothing happens as we cross, as they are so used to the tourists crossing to the Lock and back that its just background to them.
There is another walk you can do from Manningtree station, and that is East along the Essex Way to Harwich. I tried it once in winter and it was rather muddy. For those interested, the highlights are the twin towers at Mistley (just five minutes walk away), and a set of beach huts that seem a little lost by the mud and stone shore of Wrabness. There is the old town of Harwich too of course, but that is two days walk away, and the branch line does the journey in minutes.
Back at the station, our train arrives to take us further into East Anglia. Next stop is Ipswich, where another branch line can whisk you to Woodbridge Tide Mill, and Sutton Hoo on its way to Lowestoft; but today we stay on the mainline train and ride it all the way to Norwich.
Norwich is famous for Colemans Mustard, but there is more to the city than that. Its an uphill walk from the station, but we soon reach Tombland. In my student days it boasted several excellent restaurants, a couple of nightclubs and a number of bars, as well the very obvious cathedral. Most have now gone, but the cathedral remains and welcomes our visit via a dark box that has sprouted from its side. Its billed as a visitor centre, but as far as I can tell its twin purposes are to block a decent view of the cathedral and provide teachers with an indoor space to corral their charges.
From the cathedral we walk up the cobbled street of Elm Hill and emerge in the bustling city centre. The half covered market is still there, though spruced up a bit from the shanty town it used to be. I remember it as a maze of part covered passageways past numerous food stalls and kiosks selling anything you could imagine. It all looks rather uniform and grey now, which makes it hard to navigate, despite the large letters that guard the entrance of each row. In an ornate covered walkway we come across ye olde Colemans Mustard Shop, which is more accurately described as ye newe Colemans Mustard shop. Not many years ago it was situated in Elm Hill.
We stay for a meal in one of the city restaurants and wander across to Chapelfield Gardens to watch an elaborate clock (of the Heath Robinson style) chime the hour. Its then that we realise its getting quite late and so scurry down the hill to the station. We have one last train to take, and just enough light to see where we are going – and that is Acle.
Its a bright morning when we set off to walk, but the route we were to take has possibly the worst start to a footpath you can imagine. It involves climbing onto a wall and balancing as you walk along the top, holding on to tree branches to avoid falling either into the river, or the concrete yard the other side. Needless to say few are willing to try it, so instead we opt for another route, that takes us down to the banks of another river and a levee that snakes its way to the restored windmill at Berney Arms. There is a railway station here too. One train a day each way stops here on request, and the one time I requested it, they overshot the very short platform. The conductor offered to reverse the train, but I opted to jump down to the grass instead (hurting my knee). I watched the little two carriage shuttle of civilisation trundle off to Great Yarmouth, wondering whether I had made the right choice. It was of course, and even if it had turned out bad, there is a remote pub by the windmill, and the walk to Great Yarmouth is only another four miles.
After a good morning’s walk we enter the outskirts of Great Yarmouth. Being out of season its all looking a bit boarded up as we approach the seafront, but the beach is there and we can’t resist a paddle in the greyish waters of the North Sea. Its not the most inviting water round this part of the coast, but that is due mainly to sediment churning round in the water. Its a pleasant enough sandy beach though, and we walk barefoot North along the coast, until we come to a beach cafe close to a little place called ‘California’. ‘Its not exactly Baywatch’ remarks one of the party as he pictured the TV series many of us were transfixed by in our youth.
After a well earned tea and cake its time to head back. There are no transport connections handy, so its a case of backtracking to Great Yarmouth, where we catch the train back to Acle.
There are several other directions worth walking from our base. And the next day we opt for one that heads North past a number of old windmills in various states of repair to one that has been restored at Thurne. Its a straight up and back sort of route, but returning along the levee we get another view of the same features.
We could go on spotting windmills for several more days, but the attraction is fading, and the party are eager to move on. So we head back to Norwich and take the train North. Stopping off at Wroxham we get to explore the worlds only village department store. Roys Of Wroxham which was constantly advertised on the local radio, is split between a number of shops each of which is a ‘department’. It reminds me of Arundel (which we visit on the South Coast virtual tour), which used to have an outdoor shop spread through seven different shops. And it was a very good shop too, boasting that it provided equipment for many expeditions. But sadly it closed a few years ago.
From Wroxham our minibus takes us to one of the riverside pubs for a spot of lunch complete with the entertainment of tourists without a clue trying to steer rental boats. Amusing as it is, what would really have made our day would be a sighting of the elusive Swallowtail butterfly. In Britain it is found only around the Norfolk Broads. With so many people around there is little chance.
After lunch, we reboard the train to Cromer and Sheringham. Cromer is a well presented sort of place and boasts a pier pointing North into the North Sea, and a promenade that is shaded by the low coastal hills for much of the year. Sheringham is a bit more rough round the edges, but oozes a certain charm. It too has a shady promenade, and in places it has a high concrete wall holding the land back so we can walk below. But here they have taken to decorating the wall with scenes of dinosaurs and a couple in deckchairs by a beach hut. We would explore further, but its getting late, so we check into the youth hostel for the night.
There is a steam train at Sheringham, just across the road from the public train. Its a continuation of the line that once wandered across Norfolk, but alas no more. The steam train kept some of that line, but takes you to the middle of nowhere and back which is about four miles away. Next to the steam railway, there is a bus stop, and a well organised service that takes you along the coast to Wells Next the Sea. There another bus takes you the other half of the coast to eventually reach Kings Lynn. We take it to Cley Next the Sea, which boasts a windmill and a little flint walled smokehouse selling just about every kind of smoked seafood. We have to walk for several minutes along a levee to find the sea, and even then it seems to be miles away across coastal marshes. A meandering path takes us out across the marshes (where we find yet more marshes) and then gives up and returns to the land at Blakeney just a couple of miles away. Here there is a channel to the sea, and a number of boats sit askew at the quayside awaiting the tide. There is also a big carpark and a big hotel, but not much more.
Its quite a walk beyond Blakeney, keeping the distant sea on our right and patches of scrubby woodland on our left. Despite the lack of coast, this coast path makes for a pleasant walk, all the way to Wells. And when we eventually arrive there we find a bustling little town all but hidden from the world. There are plenty of restaurants and cafes overlooking the quayside, and more shops in the roads behind; and a bed for the night at the youth hostel. Oh and of course if you missed the postcards, there is a huge great covered corridor crossing the quayside on stilts a couple of storeys up that is pretty much the emblem of the town. I’d show you a picture but it looks odd no matter what angle you look at it from. And that is the main reason I haven’t painted it!
Next morning is bright, and perfect for a walk to the beach. Its about a mile away along a straight road, and at first it appears busy. The beach huts are a bit of a mish-mash with all different paint jobs, and most on stilts with steps leading up to them. But they are all different heights as though there is some competition to get the loftiest viewpoint. The pine trees behind easily win, as do the photographers that come for this photogenic scene.
Beyond the beach huts the beach is empty save for three riders taking their horses for a gallop across the empty sand. We walk for an hour with huge skies and a moody cloud creeping up from behind, across the sea. Rain threatens, and we still have some way to go across the dunes and rough pastures to Burnham Overy Staithe and our onward bus. Its a grand name for the tiniest of places. We make it there just before the rain, but only to find there is no shelter.
It rains all the way to Hunstanton, but thankfully eases as we disembark for an afternoon at ease on the beach. Its a rather unusual beach here, as the cliffs are two tone. Not the music genre, but the colouring – a dark red sandstone, topped with an almost pure white limestone.
From Hunstanton we take another bus to Kings Lynn, which proves an even more curious place. There are plenty of buildings, a mix of old and new in no particular order, but almost no people. Its as though the place is in lockdown.
We head to the quay, where I once drew three large blue silos in pastel. They’ve gone now, but the other old buildings of the quay remain – most notably the old customs house which looks like it hasn’t seen use in a very long time. At the quay there is a straight channel of blue-green water jostling its way to the sea just visible in the distance. The other side there is a scattering of houses, but otherwise fields. It all blends with the lack of people to offer a strange kind of beauty that leaves us calm and strangely fulfilled.
A train awaits at Kings Lynn. Its heading for London, stopping off at Ely (famous for its cathedral, and little else – as that is what surrounds it); and Cambridge – our next stop. I spent three years living and working in Cambridge, and spent much of my free time sitting on the banks of the Cam, sketching boathouses, or just watching the hapless tourists trying to manoeuvre punts using just the long pole provided. Watch for long enough and you can tick off : a) lost pole floating past, b) stuck pole left behind in the river bed, or better still c) tourist left clinging to stuck pole in riverbed, and finally d) pole wedged against bridge as the punt passes beneath. It gets very crowded at times too – almost sufficient to run across the jammed punts from one side to another – though I’ve never seen anyone try.
Each summer the local hi tech businesses organise a punt race to Grantham. The aim is meant to be to win, but is actually to come second, since the winner organises the next year’s event. Coming second also means there is not much of a queue at the refreshment tent by the finish.
There is a lot to see and do in Cambridge, and nearly always some event taking place. We arrive in time for Strawberry Fayre, which has taken place on a June weekend each year for – well not that long actually, just a few decades. Its a real treat for the sense, with stalls selling food from every corner of the world, tents and stages with every kind of music and much more, all spread out over a square mile or so of Midsummer Common. By the time we think we’ve seen it all its time to retire for the night.
Being a virtual tour we have no trouble staying in one of the old luxury hotels in the city centre, paying with our virtual money. It leaves us all completely refreshed and ready for a morning of culture at the Fitzwilliam museum. From all those I’ve seen I reckon it has the best collection outside of London, and quite possibly a better collection of impressionist paintings filling a couple of its rooms. A favourite of mine is a Monet showing dappled light through a Spring orchard striking a group sitting among the grass.
And when we are all filled with as much culture as we can take we find our way to the extensive botanical garden for a wander among nature – albeit manipulated by the gardeners.
One last night at our luxury hotel and its off to the station, which these days sports a suspended glass tube, that is the cycle bridge. I tried it a few times when it was opened around 1990, and found it fun to cycle over and rather toasty at the top of the arch where the sun kept it comfortably warm all year. And that for a while at least was a problem – it attracted more than just those wanting to cross the railway, along with the odd piece of broken glass. I understand it was soon sorted, but by then my Cambridge days were over.
Our train arrives, and a little over an hour later we return to London and the end of this virtual tour. If you’ve enjoyed it, please feel free to ‘buy me a coffee’, or join me on one of my other tours (South Coast, South West, Wales, Northern England, Scottish Highlands and Scottish Isles - all to come). I’ll be writing them later, and hopefully putting the whole lot together as a book.