Next morning, I thanked my host for her hospitality and stocking up with provisions, set off for Sutton. Once again, the day got out really hot and I found that I had to constantly stop and lie in the shade to recuperate. This seemed no problem as I had all day to get to Potter Heigham ( Potter H’am as they say round that way) .I reached Sutton and managed a brief look at the tallest windmill in Britain. There is an interesting display there of Broads life. definitely somewhere to return to and explore at a later date.
The walk now wandered along country lanes through the village of Hickling where I was treated with great kindness and tolerance by the owners of the village stores. A real rarity……..village stores that is...not kind people.
In fact, Norfolk people are absolutely golden and really made the trip; frequently helping me to overcome the results of my own incompetence.
I sat on a bench sipping a can of the magic elixir…Lemonade Shandy .. before diving off the road into the jungle which cloaks the southern shores of Hickling Broad. This was a wild and wonderful section of the walk. I saw 4 huge exotic Swallowtail butterflies, three eagle-like Marsh Harriers and a Chinese Water Deer. Sadly something nasty bit my thigh as I rested on the grass…something I might have welcomed the night before.
The footpath hugs the waterside and the going underfoot is quite rough and bumpy. A very tiring terrain to trudge over. I spotted a thatched cottage of some kind on the bank of the river…miles from anywhere. As I drew nearer, I saw notices on either bank saying “Strictly NO Quanting “
I didn’t need any- so wasn’t too upset that they had run out of it.
By now nearing exhaustion, I stumbled on, cheered by the knowledge that I had only a mile to go to Potter Heigham .
It was not to be. This was to be my first…but by no means last… encounter with the dreaded “ Footpath Diverted” sign. Due to maintenance or dredging or the wrong kind of grass, I was coerced into walking a further three miles along a raised bank which had been well used by cows who had clearly suffered a digestive upset on a major scale. Plodding along , periodically scraping my boots sideways in the long grass, I eventually collapsed out onto the main road .
I knew there were several campsites in the area but having hallucinated about carving my socks off with a bowie knife and taking a hot shower, I asked a passer by for directions to the nearest site.
She looked me up and down….and obviously fearing that no decent site would countenance a stay by the dripping red faced wild man she saw before her…she said
“ You could try Mrs Gimlet at Hemlock Cottage…she might take you…….”( Names have been changed to protect the…..erm...author.
Twenty long minutes later, I found myself standing in front of an idyllic looking gingerbread cottage. Thatched roof, roses around the door, and an enormous black cat curled up by a besom broom in the porch. An ancient handwritten sign informed me that I had arrived at Gimlet Camping. A welter of similar fading signs added that dogs were not welcome; that anyone turning their caravan in the drive would be prosecuted; and that people dropping litter would be forced to leave.
There should be no ball games and anyone thinking otherwise could clear off home now. ( well…it didn’t exactly say that...but that was the gist of it)
Timorously I rapped the brass pixie door knocker and waited.
After what seemed an age, an eye appeared at a gap in the net curtain, a bolt slid back and before me stood an absolutely copybook fairy tale witch! Wild eyed with unkempt hair( Her that is…not me), wearing the obligatory black dress and warts, she looked me up and down …..
”What do you want?” She demanded.
“I’d like to camp” I croaked.
“That’ll be 9 pounds a night…in advance “
“Well…I’m too tired to look for somewhere cheaper “ I said (foolishly!)
“You won’t find anywhere cheaper!”
She snapped and right then I knew that one more word out of line and I’d be out on my ear.
“Only a joke! It’s really reasonable “ I crawled, proffering folding money.
“Hmm….very well. Pitch your tent down the end by the caravan. I’ll look at it later”
This last remark sounded awfully like “ I’ll look at it later- and God help you if it isn’t pitched tidily”
The caravan turned out to be an ancient model long abandoned and now covered in green algae and bird droppings. The tyres were flat and gradually disappearing into the soft earth and lush grass. I pitched the tent, taking extra care to peg it out so as to leave no ugly folds which might incur the wrath of Esmeralda. I had just about finished loading everything inside when she sort of materialised at my side.
“ Hmm, you could have put it a bit nearer the hedge… but it’ll do”
I felt like saluting and snapping “Yes Ma’am!” but muttered a humble “ Are you sure? I could easily move it ?” although right then I was having difficulty moving my left leg in sync with my right one…let alone moving the wretched tent . But no, apparently it would do.
“Come and see me at the house before you do any washing “ she added as she sped away on her broomstick. Sorry , that last bit didn’t really happen but I was expecting it so much that I may have hallucinated it.
Having just about passed muster, I headed off into town to explore.
Many of the towns on the Broads have a kind of inland seaside feel to them. Although Wroxham rather sets the standard with its amusement arcades and chip shops; interesting souvenirs and rude postcards , Potter Heigham also has this air of holiday fun and abandon. Both places boast a large department store which draws the crowds from afar.
Each has a busy harbour offering moorings for holiday craft, boat hire and organised trips on the water. They both have a posse of homicidal attack-ducks too. These Mallards–with-malice haunt the water’s edge and mug unsuspecting holidaymakers for a handful of chips. Little boys who run around the house naked used to be told” Put it away, the ducks will get you” and, believe me, these ducks are the ones they had in mind.
Feeling that another meal based on Sosmix could be too much of a good thing, I wandered into a local pub which served food. You can tell the real gourmet places as they have a menu outside written on a blackboard in coloured chalk. Obviously inflation makes it difficult to quote prices, but a good rule of thumb is that a decent meal ought not to cost more than a packet of fags. I scanned the menu, trying to decide what to have with my chips.
As this was to be a rare treat, I settled on the vegetarian sausage surprise and sat back to take in the atmosphere of this ancient hostelry. I couldn’t put my finger on it for a while, but it suddenly came to me that the pub had just about the fattest clientele I had ever seen. Great big blokes in dungarees and ample bottomed ladies overhanging barstools. This boded well for the food….probably fried in good old traditional lard.
A small boy stood on tip toe looking through the glass at a large fish;
“Do it move Dad?” he asked as he banged on the tank
The legend “ 23lbs pike caught in 1907 by Colonel Boggis” suggested otherwise.
As I lingered over my meal and a few essential glasses of house red; feeling all warm and relaxed , I began to realise just how tiring the long diversion on today’s walk had been.
My legs put up solid resistance when I urged them to carry me back to the site. By the time I reached the tent I felt utterly exhausted. I decided there and then to approach Mrs Gimlet first thing and ask if I could extend my stay by another day.
Staggering back onto the site, I was astonished to see that a massive van had parked in such a way as to totally overshadow my tent. As I drew closer, I spotted the legend- “Women’s Royal Voluntary Service” on the side of the van. Just beyond I spotted a well pitched bell tent.
I imagined this to be full of women who might volunteer royal services in various ways. This was enough in my book for them to be forgiven for the incursion onto my territory. I looked forward to nocturnal girlie giggles in the style of “Carry On Camping “ and, with luck, some early morning callisthenics with Barbara Windsor look-alikes losing their foundation garments.
However, the night brought less pleasant experiences. Using my head-torch ..a curious piece of equipment which pointed everywhere but where the beam was needed…I lay in my sleeping bag and read a guide book to the area. Now I may have imagined this, but I am sure that I read that the area on which the campsite was laid out had once been a Saxon burial ground.
The elastic band which held the torch on my head eventually cut off the blood supply to my brain so I reluctantly put down the guide and snuggled down to sleep. Initially I slept well. With the tent sandwiched between the WRVS van and the decrepit caravan it was sheltered from the wind which had begun to get up.
I woke in the small hours aware of strange noises outside. I could hear
A sort of scratching, scraping noise accompanied by what sounded like sighing. The tent was now billowing and slapping in the wind. A barn owl screeched nearby. I shivered…cold…but also now feeling afraid.
Sounds are magnified at night. I lay there listening to the insistent scraping and scratching . Almost certainly the shades of long dead Saxons trying to claw their way out of the cold earth where they had so long lain. Well, that’s what it sounded like. By far the best way to deal with various ghoulies, bogey men and spooks is the time honoured trick of snuggling down under the covers .This almost always works, although don’t ask about the times when it hasn’t.
I spent a troubled night; due partly to the returning spooky Saxons and partly to the returning onion rings from my pub meal. The strange noises continued and the wind got up again…both within and without, but eventually I fell asleep- waking some hours later as the sun peeped through the privet hedge. Again I heard the scratching but this time accompanied by muffled curses. So much braver by the pink light of dawn, I peered outside expecting Beowulf to be rising from the grave. It was much worse…much more scary.
The scratching had been the sound of chickens penned in the dilapidated old caravan and now I was staring directly at Esmeralda Gimlet’s enormous muscular bottom as she knelt with her head through the pop hole gathering eggs. God help me if she caught me staring at her drawers. I rapidly zipped myself back in and snuggled down in my sleeping bag again.
I awoke some time later to the sound of the WRVS practising for a steel band concert. Or maybe just cooking breakfast in various metal pans. I dressed and crawled out looking for Barbara Windsor. No such luck. What I saw was a jolly family group who may well have pinched the works van for the weekend . Lovely people who chatted away to me little realising that I had spent half the night fighting off the undead on their behalf.
I was beginning to hum a bit. Not in a musical way…more a “My God, what on earth have they been spreading on the fields Mildred?” sort of way. Much modern walking gear prides itself on being light, quick drying, breathable etc…but “smelly” is a word seldom mentioned in the brochures. Phrases like “Wicks away perspiration” rather cloak the fact that the sweat has to go somewhere. Indeed it does wick to the surface of the garment and the wetness evaporates ( or “Flashes” in the techno speak beloved of hikers everywhere) only the pong remains.
I planned to stay at the camp a further day- so after breakfast, gathered together a pile of laundry and set out to find Mrs Gimlet. I found her by the cottage ramming a stick down the drains. She eyed my bundle. “ Is that your washing ?” she asked. Her glare implied it looked, and maybe smelled, more like my garbage. After brief negotiations...and the passage of a few silver coins… she pointed out the laundry room with its slot meter controlled old geyser.
“How many items do you have to wash?” she demanded to know
“Eight “ I replied after the kind of survey usually reserved for the nine items or less checkout at Tesco.
She handed me 9 clothes pegs.
“Mind you bring ‘em back” she said “ Or I’ll have to charge ‘em to you”
Laundry duly done and hung out to dry, I set out for the village. I rather fancied a boat trip on the Broads. I trundled into the tourist office and discovered that a large boat…with a bar let it be said….was sailing that very afternoon via Hickling Broad to the wind pump at Horsey Mere. I decided to book and reached for my wallet. I had already had to dig deep to pay Mrs Gimlet and now the boat trip left me very short of cash. I asked where I might find a cash point.
“Erm…Stalham “ came the reply
“Stalham ?” I gulped “ But that’s miles away!”
Indeed it was…and is. Nothing else for it…no hole in the wall…no cash back no way. If I wanted cash, it had to be Stalham.
And so it was that I came to be riding in Tim’s taxi. Spending ten pounds on the fare to withdraw forty ! He knew of Esmeralda…….
“Funny old gal “ he said” Often chucks people off the site if she don’t like the look of them !”
Back in Potter Heigham, pockets stuffed with gold, I blew part of my fortune on a nourishing bag of chips and settled down by the river to watch boats sailing under the bridge. This proved excellent sport as the opening was only marginally bigger than most boats. This combined with tides and swirling currents…not to mention flocks of attack-ducks…led the authorities to insist that no-one attempt to sail under the bridge without the services of a skilled river pilot. These old sea-dogs( River-dogs?) made it look really easy….lining up the boat and, as the holidaymaking crew went white, gulped and ducked low...shot through the opening with just inches to spare.
Eventually the time came to board the boat for my trip into the unknown. Would I end up having to leap overboard and haul the boat to safety-burning off leeches with a glowing fag-end? Would the Captain collapse over the wheel forcing me to takeover and pilot us through treacherous waters? Would someone(else) on board go mad and try to scuttle the boat? A heady mixture of The African Queen, Hemingway, Swallows and Amazons and Hammond Innes swam around in my brain as we weighed anchor and slipped into the channel-bound for Horsey.
Uneventful would be one way of describing the trip…but that would be a little unfair. Judged by the standards of normal folks rather than an overgrown Just William…it was fine. We saw herons and a marsh harrier, almost sunk a canoe, drank a few glasses of red wine ( a naval tradition) and got to climb the steps of Horsey Mill for a panoramic view of the surrounding countryside.
To my shame, I have often referred to this part of Norfolk as the “Empty Quarter” The great unexplored wilderness between Mundesley and Great Yarmouth .
I enjoyed the cruise and my legs certainly appreciated the rest from humping half a ton ( 500Kg) of camping equipment along river banks.
I returned to the campsite to find that the WRVS had fled only to be replaced by a couple of the undead in a huge caravan parked about as close to my tiny tent as was possible. I tried to be friendly…tried to chat…but couldn’t decide whether they were mute, Latvian or had temporarily given their carer the slip. Eventually I gave up and got on with my chores. They found me most entertaining…watching me go about the business of cooking a Sosmix Special like a pair of noddy headed dogs. They sat grinning and gently wobbling their heads in wry amusement as I slopped the wet mix into shape, fried it and then skilfully scraped a lot of it off the pan and onto my plate.
After spending a quiet night in, I slept well…my dreams completely devoid of deceased Saxons and similar nocturnal nasties. I woke early and after breakfast, prepared to move on. The nodding dogs watched as I deflated the airbed, rolled up the tent, stuffed the sleeping bag into it’s cover and , with the bare minimum of squashing, kneeing, swearing and wrestling, packed everything away in the rucsack. Mr Noddy strolled over, grinning inanely” So, does it all fit in there then ?” he asked.
With everything safely stowed , I hoisted the pack and strode off on the next leg of the journey. I hoped to follow the path beside the river Thurne, down through Acle and out onto Halvergate marshes. My brief battered guide to the Weavers’ Way suggested stopping at the curiously named Camping Barn and gave a phone number to call.
I walked on under a hot sun with just the birds, butterflies and a packet of liquorice allsorts for company. The path veered away from the river at the picturesque village of Thurne with its much photographed windpump and less well recorded ice cream vending emporium…It then climbed through the churchyard. I followed, chomping on a Cornetto, heaving my weary body up a steep incline
( in Norfolk, this is any piece of ground on which water will refuse to stay still) to be rewarded by stunning views of the river below.
I walked through yet more sugar beet fields before dropping back down to the riverside opposite Upton marshes. I sat by an old ruined mill and ate my lunch, waving my bare feet at passing boats. Strange business this waving malarkey. There is some inexplicable compulsion on the part of day trippers afloat that causes them to wave cheerily and leer gormlessly at anyone and anything that moves. They wave at passengers on passing craft, at folks on the riverbank, at herds of cows and at RAF pilots flying 20,000 feet overhead. Anyway, I waved back equally gormlessly…if not more so.
I loved these picnics. A chance to rest and relax…savour being out in the open air. Listening to the birds and bees. Dining regally on whatever had survived being jammed into the rucsack…and subsequently knelt on. Some foods endure this better than others. Sliced white bread in particular tends to revert to its component parts when compressed. Few things are less appetising than a squashed Spam sandwich.
This took me back to my Army days when on cookhouse fatigue duties, four lads would process alongside a very long table. The first would slap down slices of bread as if dealing from a pack of cards, the second would slop a paste of bully beef and oil onto each slice of bread. Number three would deal a second slice of bread on top…and the fourth and most important member of the team would wallop the sandwich to cement it together. This final component of the sandwich making drill was known as “stunning”.
Haversack rations usually included two rounds of these terrifying examples of the sandwich makers art- plus a packet of crisps an apple and sometimes a chocolate bar( small, hard, tasteless and “wishing I had a proper one” for the use of ) We referred to the sandwiches as “baddies” and the other stuff as “goodies”.
The baddies were frequently flung from the back of the truck. Dartmoor and Salisbury Plain are built on these discarded building blocks. In fact, there may well be an alternative theory concerning the origins of Stonehenge in there somewhere. Reading that, you can probably understand how I look so well on a diet of burnt Sosmix fritters.
My sybaritic lunchtime pleasures would usually endure until shortly after the ants and flies found me. One would wave or flick away the first members of the vanguard before reaching the point where, as the main legions arrived, frantic waving and flicking would attract boat loads of trippers enthusiastically signalling back.
Back on the trail, I walked beyond the mouth of Upton Dyke, past Clippesby Mill and on to Acle Bridge with its welcome stores and even more welcome public conveniences. Note that I have, thus far, largely avoided the earthy but obviously entirely natural and necessary matter of bodily functions( well…ignoring the sawn off Coca Cola bottle that is…Oh and the missing straw bales saga ) When there is a toilet, then one uses it…however , we adventurers have to be adept at doing it in the woods….except that alongside Broadland waterways…there are no woods( oh and the herbaceous border incident) Anyway, the toilets were open, clean, well supplied and greatly assisted me in the business of walking straight without ones knees being clenched.( I said “Knees” to avoid appearing vulgar)
I bought fresh supplies of chocolate and ice cream but left my main grocery shopping until arriving in Acle itself. I realised that my gas canister was running low and tried valiantly to find a stockist. Everyone I asked seemed to suggest somewhere different, and trekking across the place when hot and heavily laden was no fun. The kindly proprietor of Wonderful Wilkersons hardware stores turned practically the whole place upside down believing that the elusive gas lurked somewhere within.
Sadly it didn’t. I resolved to do without hot food that night. In view of the standard of cuisine so far, this was hardly a great sacrifice….more a blessing in disguise. I bought a collection of various nutritious cold foods from the Co-op…peanuts..swiss roll..Hob-Nobs etc. I found a telephone box and called the owner of the camping barn to ask permission to camp . He readily gave it, but warned me that there were already some people staying there.
The idea of having company was rather attractive after all the time I had spent in the bush, so I hoisted my pack and lugged my Co-op carrier bags out of town. After a wet spring, growth was lush along the path which wound its way through a recently planted wood . I made my way through this veritable jungle towards the A47 trunk road. Crossing this was a nightmare. Cars ,Lorries and kamikaze caravans barred my path and as I gathered myself ready to dash across a group of snarling racing motorcyclists in lurid leathers rocketed from the nearby roundabout. It seemed forever before I was able to cross…although it probably wasn’t.
At last I was over and tripped off in the direction of the barn. Feeling good at escaping the horribly busy road I sang to myself. Have you ever noticed that the more you want to stop singing a particular tune….the more often you find it on your lips? Frank Ifield and his yodelling were proving difficult to suppress. I tried a variety of tunes from “The Happy Wanderer” to the Marines yomping chant( My Mate Marmite) but Frank refused to be beaten. In the end I all but glued my jaws together and clomped along in silence……..until I heard the thump of amplified music…
As the camping barn hove into view, it was clear that my fellow campers were young and music loving. A crowd of laughing joking boisterous young folks spilled over from the barn. Clusters of tents were pitched in the meadow outside. I felt like a grizzled old granddad appearing out of the mists. Like a fur trapper descending from the Rockies after spending six months unwashed and generally untended.
Well, I certainly grabbed their attention. I explained the situation and said that I didn’t want to disturb them and would camp away over the other side of the field. They were having none of it and quickly put me at ease. The barn turned out to have a fully functioning kitchen….so much for my lack of gas… and bathrooms with all mod cons.
We chatted for a while and it turned out that the group wanted to go out on the town…or as we used to say in historical times…paint the town red. I suggested they would need a very small pot of paint for Acle and suggested they head for Great Yarmouth which could certainly do with as fresh coat or two of any colour at all really.
I must have an honest face as they left me the keys to the barn. I made camp in a lovely spot a good distance from the other tents. Sheltered by trees and set amongst wild flowers( well…on top of some of them) it felt truly wild . The four gas rings, fridge and power shower were a bonus. The tent that I was using had an entrance on each side and I had long wanted to be able to camp in such a way that with the flaps rolled up, I could watch the sunset one side and waken to the sunrise on the other. I got my sunset alright, but awoke to the sound of rain drumming on the tent and splashing through the doorway onto my sewn in groundsheet. I gave up on sunrise , mopped up as much water as I could without getting out of my sleeping bag , zipped up the tent and went back to sleep.
Eventually the usual calls of nature had me up and wading through the wet grass . I knew the young folks had been really late and didn’t want to go clattering into the barn…so did things al fresco. I breakfasted handsomely on muesli and cold water. The sun was now peeping through and my tent started to dry off quite rapidly. As this was the final day on the Weavers’ Way I wanted to make a fairly early start so loaded up my still somewhat damp equipment and crept away.
The long grass was still wet and despite wearing proper waterproof boots, I soon had soaking wet feet. I think that my super-socks which were designed to wick away moisture from my feet were now wicking rainwater straight down into my boots…rather in the manner in which one can water pot plants while on holiday by using a bowl of water and an old rag. Regardless of how it was happening…it WAS happening and after a few soggy miles I had to stop to change socks ,dry my feet and don my waterproof overtrousers . Thus encumbered - I rustled streamed and dripped off through the meadows.
Ahead of me lay the dark brooding expanse of Halvergate Marshes. On a grey cloudy day with not a soul in sight, I set out to cross a wilderness as forbidding as the famous Grimpen Mire of Hound of the Baskervilles fame. Mercifully, everything began to dry out and I was able to remove the overtrousers which had been progressively sending me loopy with their chafes and rustles and squeaks.
Halvergate Marshes are grazed by fierce looking cattle who need to be tough to live out there. None of your namby pamby Jersey cows here. These are great shaggy lumbering beasts with horns two metres across whose very breath can stunt a shrub at ten paces. As the unsuspecting traveller stumbles across the moors, they clamber to their feet like African buffalo which we all know from reading Tarzan comics are the most dangerous quarry of all .
Frankly the best technique is to just talk to them the way one would an axe-toting mass murderer. Just plough on while saying.. as firmly as one can when the spittle has mysteriously dried up… “ Now we don’t want any trouble do we? I respect your right to be here but I just need to walk past …it is after all a right of way” They just sort of look at you…but deep down you know it was only their highly developed sense of pity which has spared you a ghastly goring.
I remember when I took up beekeeping…they seemed to go mental whenever I opened up the hive, they stung through my protective clothing…they shot down my welly boots to sting my ankles...they got inside my veil.. whereas they were as gentle as lambs when my beekeeping mentor did exactly the same thing. He taught me to sing to them …particularly recommending “The Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo” It worked-but it took me years to twig that the singing was to calm ME down- not the bees…although one led in turn to the other.
My country know-how and raw courage took me past the cattle……they also took me past the correct turn off for the new Weavers’ Way. The path has been slightly modified over the years and now plunges south east to the famous Berney Arms pub which sits in splendid isolation beside the river….accessible only by boat ..on foot…or amazingly...by train. Sadly…I sloshed on across the swamp in a completely different direction . My excuse is that I was following a series of arrows and signs which said “Ramblers-This Way” …which I imagine had been stuck there to guide a party of walkers who had presumably been swallowed up by the mire…..or trampled by the bullocks.
Eventually I reached the raised bank along the side of Breydon water… a huge tidal estuary lined with mud and sand banks- home to thousands of birds…..and numerous rotting hulks of boats. As I walked along the top of the bank, swallows swooped low…whistling past me as if dive bombing me. I can only imagine that they were after the various insects disturbed by my rolling gait and thudding tread. I watched in amazement at their aerial prowess….feeling the rush of air as they swept by. They could of course have been in pursuit of the various flies and other assorted insects buzzing around me attracted by my many and various unhygienic practices.
I stopped for lunch by a stile…always a good spot as the lower step can be utilized as a seat. I was nearing the end of this section of the walk and had resolved to pop home for supplies…more re-equipping and possibly a bath. I made a note to investigate lightweight stools as a possible addition to my burden.
As I sat with my boots off trying to dry my socks and air my feet, a party of walkers approached. They said they had made much the same trip as I had but seen no other walkers at all along the way . In some respects this is great news as one would like to keep the solitude and wildness… on the other hand, it means that a lot of walkers are missing out on a very attractive and challenging walk . Certainly it is now difficult to walk the North Norfolk Coastal Path at any time of year without encountering many other walkers…although I guess there is plenty of saltmarsh to go around.
I walked on towards Great Yarmouth. Breydon Water is a real haven for birds and I watched Little Egrets as I had way back on the north coast. This beautiful bird was hunted to extinction in this country during the 19th century. Its pure white plumes were in great demand by milliners. I marvelled at Grebes diving underwater as I approached and watched for them to bob up much later…almost always nowhere near where I expected them to surface.
At length I too surfaced somewhat unexpectedly in Asda’s car park. After worming my way under the giant road bridge and negotiating a rusty chain link fence…I was able to complete the Weavers’ Way at the rather attractive display board near the railway station. So far…so good. Ahead of me lay the next challenge…The Angles Way from Yarmouth to Thetford….voted the best waterside walk in Britain by waterscape.com in 2003 apparently. This is a 77 mile footpath which meanders along the border between Norfolk and Suffolk…mostly following the River Waveney. But first….that bath was calling. I have to say….I’d never realised before how brown the water was where I live.