Sandringham Camping & Caravan Club Site, Norfolk

We farewelled our host on Sunday morning; Ivan was apologetic about the wolf-like howls of his huskies but they had been audible only once a day if that, and added a unique touch to our stay at Nashoba, which means “wolf” in the North American Choctaw language.

We travelled north west via Ixworth, Thetford and Mumford, stopping for lunch in the Thetford Forest in the very best delay-stop we have experienced in this country. Just a few miles west of Thetford is a parking spot mostly suited to and patronised by dog walkers, with no facilities except a “wide open space”, these words alone almost foreign to English people. We wandered up through the oak forest, through knee high grass and wild flowers, then along a boundary path between pine forest and arable farmland. This was a wonderful prelude to our lunch and a welcome break from our road journey even after less than an hour.

Back on the road we continued on up toward the Wash, passing numerous pig farms for which this area is renowned, diminutive Nissan Hut stys on bare turf with occasional clumps of red poppies, skirting around the south and east of Kings Lynn, until we reached the Sandringham Estate, this corner housing the club sites for both the Caravan and Motorhome Club and the Camping and Caravan Club, both clubs of which we are members, but now choosing to stay in the second of these sites.

We chose an open spot and fairly near the facilities, but unlevel and with limited television reception. Around us are dozens upon dozens of sandy mole holes which change every day; they are a busy lot here, the Sandringham moles. The pigeons are of almost plague numbers, even more numerous than they are elsewhere in this country. In fact, we have been astounded at the numbers of the wood pigeons, and I am sure they are in far greater numbers than when Chris’s sister and her husband came to visit us in New Zealand over a decade ago. Then we had waxed lyrical whenever we spotted one of our own wood pigeons, or kereru, because in our country they have only in recent years emerged from near extinction and are still protected, even from “indigenous traditional consumption”. Margie and Dave had been rather baffled by our wonderment.

We took some time sorting our camp out, and given the frustrations of the afternoon, I suggested that I should take responsibility of the evening’s dinner. Our improvised pork curry was delicious if I may say so myself, but more exciting was my earlier encounter with a tiny bat.

I was on my way to the showers mid-afternoon when I spied a woman crouched down on the pathway, who asked if I knew anything about bats. It seemed that the tiny bat, which I suggested might be a pipistrelle, had fallen from the ceiling of the men’s toilets and one well-meaning chap had brought it out to “safety”. The woman’s husband had headed off to the office for help, which was slow coming. She and I spent time surrounding it with the small cones fallen off the many pines in the park. The bat was intent on escaping to somewhere else but seemed unable to fly off. 

Eventually one of the caretakers turned up with advice that we were to do nothing – they are protected and should be left to nature, a bit like listed buildings. He also told us that earlier in the day he had moved an asp up into the undergrowth, because they too are protected, and his wife who arrived soon after told us of a toad she had seen here a couple of days ago. I considered the chances of the pipistrelle; dinner for a toad or a snake, neither outcome very encouraging for we wildlife rescuers.

When I emerged later from the showers, the bat was gone and I could only hope he had crawled away to a safe hole where his whanau might discover him later when conditions suited better.

Yesterday dawned quite fine, and given the dodgy forecasts for the week, a delight. We headed for Holkham Hall on the north coast of Norfolk, or the southern coast of the Wash, depending on your perspective. We drove an almost direct diagonal route, up narrow country lanes and through some absolutely delightful villages; Shernbourne, Fring, Docking and the Burnhams, all worthy of a visit but we carried on with our destination in mind.

We arrived at Holkham, just to the west of Wells-on-Sea before opening time of the Hall and even the gardens which we were also keen to see. We parked in the village car park, free of parking meters, and walked back down to the main road to admire the pub and residences we had passed as we turned up into the estate. 

Beyond the village toward the sea, we could see many visitors heading into another space of which we were ignorant. This turned out to be the Holkham National Nature Reserve, England’s largest national nature reserve, all part of the estate. It most likely deserves a day of exploration, but our days here are numbered and will have to be a filler for another trip or missed altogether and left to others with more time than us.

We decided to avoid the parking fees up at the Hall by walking through the park instead, a fifteen minute walk according to the brochure and a lovely one at that, passing through grassy landscapes with views of the great herds of deer farmed on the estate.

Our first port of call was the ticket office, armed with our two-for-one Treasure Houses voucher, then we set off around the three and three quarter mile lake walk, taking in the nature trail as well which afforded us interpretative panels describing the natural wonders of the 3,000 acre park. Here we learned that the herd of 400 Fallow deer had been established in the park in 1843, that the 120 foot obelisk monument was erected to the great agricultural reformist, the 1^st Earl of Leicester (2^nd creation), Thomas William Coke (pronounced “Cook” {1754 – 1842}), and that moles eat earthworms, beetle larvae and slugs and are capable of eating half their body weight in food every day. 

We detoured from the walk to the walled garden which was included in our ticket, and found ourselves a picnic spot before exploring the six acres divided into seven sections. These were established many years ago, but after their Victorian heyday, fell into decline, as so often seems to happen here in the UK. Much more recently, work has been carried out to restore the gardens and while not complete, they are the best we have seen across our travels of the country.

From here we caught the golf-cart like buggy to the Hall, keen to make the most of the limited opening hours, and were duly entranced by the wonderful architecture of the place.

Holkham Hall is a family home, hence the limited days it is open to the public, although these days tourism, either direct or indirect, provides the main income stream to the estate. The 25,000 acre estate is still owned and lived in by the Coke family, aka the Earls of Leicester (2^nd creation).

I should explain the “2^nd creation” bit; the first lot fizzled out without issue, however the property was passed on to those within the family, sideways as so often happened. The cousin who took over the property proved to be such a winner in his own right, he was granted the earldom again, hence the second chance title.

The Hall is an elegant 18^th century Palladian style house based on the designs by William Kent and built by Thomas Coke, 1^st Earl of Leicester. It is quite stunning and in its long life has not undergone radical remodelling as so many of the grand houses have through the centuries. We were wowed, to such an extent we actually forked out for the guide book, and if you have been following our travel and formed an opinion of our character, that is really saying something.

After traipsing through the grand rooms admiring the wonderful statues and art works, we spent some time in the museum to view the exhibition “Field to Fork” which not only celebrates the agricultural activity of the property, both past and present, but also spells out in a far more lucid manner than anything within the hall itself, the history of the house and families that lived in it. We were most impressed.

The afternoon was passing all too quickly, and even as we backtracked toward the walled garden along the lake, we could see the Hall was closing. I was keen to photograph the Hall  with a watery foreground and in doing so, we had the dubious pleasure of padding through the acres of geese and duck faeces and being greeted by a small herd of deer who came on down toward the lake.

By the time we walked back out across the park to retrieve our vehicle, we were tired but delighted with our day; Holkham Hall had certainly been worth visiting.

We returned to our camp on more major roads, this time on the B1155, still rural and offering wonderful vistas along the route. As we passed through Bircham Newton we were intrigued by the institutional feel of the place; the old buildings and the activity going on all about us. Later we discovered this to be the site of the Construction Industry Training Board, situated on the 500 acres that was up until 1962 a former RAF base.
 

Today we were up early enough to head across to the nearest village and shop at Dersingham’s Co-op for a few necessities before heading off on foot up to the main attraction on the Sandringham Estate, the sometime home of the current Queen of England. It took us about twenty minutes to reach the ticket office, walking  the way partly through lovely woodland, arriving just in time for the gardens to open at 10.30am.

Sandringham is one of the privately owned royal residences, as opposed to those belonging to the “Crown” like Windsor, Hampton Court and Buckingham Palaces.  This is a country house on 8,100 hectares of land in Norfolk, which includes tenanted farms and villages.  It serves as a winter retreat for the Queen set among twenty four hectares of stunning gardens and is open to the public to provide an alternative stream of income for the money sapping heritage listed house. Despite any negative feedback on the recent raise the Queen has been given, these properties, either privately or Crown owned, draw the tourists who in turn bring foreign money into the nation; we New Zealand tax payers are but minor contributors.

The property was purchased by Queen Victoria in 1862 so that she could tuck her licentious wastrel son, the Prince of Wales Albert Edward who later became King Edward VII, out of sight, out of mind.  But the property did have an earlier history; it was built in 1771 by architect Cornish Henley and subsequently modified during the 19^th century by Charles Spenser Cowper, a stepson of Lord Palmerston, two times Prime Minister of Britain.

Within a couple of years, when the enfant-terrible was resident here with his bride, Princess Alexandra, and the family very quickly growing, he commissioned A J Humbert to demolish the building and create a larger one. The resulting building competed in the late 1870s, exhibits a mix of styles and is today a very pleasant family home albeit cluttered with old collectibles, something that appeals to some and not to others.

And so Sandringham has been home to Prince Albert, aka King Edward VII, then his son George V,  his son Edward VIII and then to the current monarch, Elizabeth II. But with it open to the public from Easter through to October, seven days a week, the royals are not likely to be spotted in the woods or the garden. It is rather sad that they cannot enjoy the splendour of the gardens which we enjoyed, even in the rain, after spending time in the museum housed in the stable block.

This latter attraction turned out to be a real bonus, especially after filing through the lovely rooms of the house, furniture all pushed to one side and red carpet down to protect the elaborate floor coverings from the plebs. There were guides standing about here and there, but little explanation offered. The museum filled in all the gaps and probably should have been visited first. Here, apart from an excellent array of interpretative panels explaining the family genealogy and personal quirks and history, there are fire engines, carriages and cars, ceramic tiles to my taste and porcelain not so much, an eclectic mix of gifts offered by far off lands and their people over the years of travel, and so much more. 

After absorbing all that we could here, we made our way back to the exit via a roundabout route through the lovely gardens, along the river cum lake and through the rain, now well set in for the afternoon. Reaching the gates we still had a fair old way back to the camp and by the time we reached the caravan our coats and shoes were sodden.

As I write this, coats and wet jeans and soggy socks are hanging about as in a Chinese laundry. Our shoes are parked on newspaper on the floor and the rain continues to fall heavily on the roof. I fear there is little chance that anything will be any drier by morning.