Sandringham Camping & Caravan Club Site, Norfolk

It rained all through Tuesday night and continued on through Wednesday morning, without break and keeping us caravan bound. Eventually Chris felt compelled to attend to the utilities, the waste and replenishment of water no matter the inclement conditions. We took the opportunity to pop out to Dersingham, going by way of Snettisham in error, which gave us reason to say that we did go touring at one point of the day. But then it was back to toasted sandwiches, novels and puzzles to entertain ourselves. By mid-afternoon the rain had eased a little and I ventured across to the amenities block. New sand hills had appeared, larger than yesterday and I wondered what excessive industry was required by the moles in such wet conditions. 

On the way back to our site I paused to chat briefly with our immediate neighbours who had arrived yesterday; two women and two large dogs. “Leaving already?” I asked.

“Yes”, said the driver, “we’ve had enough. Our clothes are all wet and we have nothing more; we’re going home.” 

When I recounted this to Chris, he drew my attention to the state of their caravan, dirty from unwashed winter mould rather than just road grime. This gave rise to imagine their story, an activity that can keep us amused for hours. Or me, at least.

The victim of this very wet Wednesday was Houghton Hall, which was to have been the day’s destination and we had no spare days to squeeze it into our already tight schedule; the penalties for having booked our next sight ahead.

However this morning dawned drier than yesterday but cold enough to don warm clothing.  Today was the day to explore King’s Lynn, the ancient port straddling the mouth of the River Great Ouse just inland from where it oozes into The Wash, just a few miles south of us on the coastal road.

We found our way to the car park at one of the two town’s markets, the Tuesday Market Place; the other is the Saturday Market Place. Needless to say, given that this was Thursday, there were no markets in town today.

We had a list of places to visit and had been alerted to the fact there were many fascinating old buildings. King’s Lynn is a very old town and so much of the original still stands within a small area beside the river. 

Many of the references to the town and the attractions about refer only to the town of Lynn, and this is because it was known as “Bishop Lynn” prior to the Dissolution, after which Henry VIII created another charter for “King’s Lynn” ousting “Our Lord of Norwich”.

But the first king to be given great status here in the town was King John; it was he who granted Lynn a royal charter in 1204, reflecting its rapid growth over the previous century to become the fourth port of the Kingdom by that date, only surpassed by London, Boston and Southampton. And it was here that King John set out from in October 1216 when his baggage train was lost in the Wash by careless bearers, as he travelled via Wisbech to Newark where he died. He probably enjoyed his last meal here by the River Great Ouse. 

In 1271 the merchants of the Hanseatic League (a group of powerful trading towns and cities around the Baltic Sea and North Sea) were granted the freedom to trade in Lynn. This medieval trading league dominated trade in northern Europe between the 13^th and 15^th centuries, the network of merchant guilds and their cities spanned from Novgorod to Lisbon and from Stockholm to Venice. Lynn benefitted commercially and culturally from being a Hanseatic trading post. Lynn’s position as one of the most successful ports in the country made it very rich, and from this era many historic buildings and important objects remain to this day. 

After parking up we spent the morning walking about, visiting Purfleet Quay to see the Customs House, the rather bleak river bank and the fine stature of George Vancouver, who sailed the Pacific with James Cook as a teenager then later went on to navigate the north coast of western America, thus giving his name to the capital of British Columbia. We wandered down through narrow streets past fine old merchant residences until we arrived at the fine Trinity Guildhall rebuilt on  earlier foundations in 1422, with its wonderful chequered flint and stone façade. We visited the “Stories of Lynn”, the museum situated in the Guildhall and the adjoining Old Gaol House, where we gleaned an overview of the town’s last 800 years of history. 

The town is proud to exhibit two of its many treasures here in the museum: the Red Register which is 700 years old and said to be the oldest complete paper archival book in England and an elaborately  bejewelled cup, known as The King John Cup.

Opposite this facinating building is the Minster, formally St Margaret’s Church, which was founded in 1101. The church was partially rebuilt in 1741 after the spire collapsed onto the nave in a storm, but what I found most interesting were the flood level markings by the west entrance door.

This reminded us that all of the land about is so very low lying; the fens. Even the one full day of rain we had endured had caused the small river in the park we later walked across, to flood and had put a stop to the ferry yesterday, that which ferries pedestrians from one side of the Great Ouse to the other.

We spent the rest of our time in King’s Lynn wandering up through the High Street, walking through the Guannock Gate, originally part of the town’s defences,  and along The Broad Walk, a lovely avenue of alternating chestnut and lime trees, planted in 1753, a promenade where only the wealthier inhabitants were once allowed to stroll and the lower class were excluded by gatekeepers. Here in the park is to be found the Red Mount Chapel, seeming more like a folly than a serious chapel, for the pilgrims who arrived in the area en route to Little Walsingham to prostrate themselves before the Shrine of Our Lady at Walsingham. This strange little octagonal brick building was built  in the 1480s and probably would have served more as a pub to offer refreshment to weary wanderers, but what would I know. 

We visited the Public Library funded and opened by philanthropist Dale Carnegie in 1905; here we had more printing done with the assistance of most co-operative library staff. We walked across the gardens where once a Franciscan friary stood, dating back to the 1230s, but now only Greyfriars Tower stands to recall those far off times.

It was still only mid-afternoon when we arrived home, even after stopping by at the superstore in South Wootten to stock up yet again. We spent the rest of the day with our feet up and happy for the cozy interior of our caravan. Hopefully tomorrow will be warmer and the forecasted showers will not amount to much; we will be away again mid-morning heading further north.

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. 

Nashoba, Base Green, near Wetherden, Suffolk

More days have whizzed  by, mostly much cooler and breezier than the preceding days. Shorts and sandals have been tucked away for another spell of summery weather and in the meantime it’s back to jeans, socks and covered shoes which were the order of the day for our tour yesterday. But I am getting ahead of myself.

The weather turned on Thursday morning, bringing short sharp showers keeping us indoors until after lunch, when we set off into Stowmarket to visit the Museum of East Anglian Life. The museum is spread over an eighty acre site which was gifted piece meal by the last family to own the farm on the edge of town, land originally part of the Home Farm for the Abbot’s Hall estate. It was never a monastery, but an outlying manor for St Osyth’s Priory in Essex, passing through numerous owners after the dissolution, until it was purchased by the Longe family in 1903. The last of the Longe’s, sisters Vera and Ena, died late in the 20^th century and the Hall was the last part of the property to pass into the charitable trust which continues to run the museum. The Hall was in a rather jaded state, however a grant from the Heritage Lottery Fund enabled renovation to be done, the work completed in 2012. The museum was opened to the public in 1967 and this year it celebrates fifty years success.

Displays include steam traction engines, reconstructed historic buildings, an exhibition which explores the history of St Audry’s Hospital which began life as the Suffolk County Asylum in 1832, on the site of an old workhouse. There is a whole building celebrating the region’s engineering success; agricultural machinery and other innovations by Ransome, Paxman, Mumford, Woods, Brackett and other well-known engineering entrepreneurial geniuses. There is also a small farm of penned goats, pigs and sheep to amuse children and three kilometres of riverside and woodland walks. We were intrigued by the exhibition about “travellers” and the caravans on display, careful not to label ourselves in the same genre; we dare not be tarred with the same brush.

We had not allowed ourselves enough time to do the museum justice, but found we could return to explore the Hall without paying further admission fees. Our anxiety about timing related to the fact we were expected in Bury St Edmunds at The Fox for dinner and wanted to make sure we were looking our best for yet another family meal. This turned out to be another success, three delicious courses, all calorie loaded and adding to the extra kilos that have been slowly creeping on over the past month.

We headed back into Bury St Edmunds yesterday morning for a tour of the Greene King Brewery, something we had considered for some time. This is the brewery that owned the second and last of the pubs that Chris grew up in when his parents were publicans until the 1960s, more particularly The Rose & Crown where we dined with Margie last year as a trip down memory lane. 

Greene King is Britain’s largest pub retailer and brewer, founded in 1799 and based here in Bury St Edmunds. Since then, there have been takeovers and mergers, and the establishment of a restaurant chain which together with the pubs the brewery owns, brings in a very handsome profit to the shareholders.  The group apparently owns in excess of 3,100 pubs, restaurants and hotels.

But the brewery itself has had a strong physical presence in the town, and provided income for many in the town in various forms, direct and indirect. When Chris was doing his signwriting apprenticeship, he painted signs and delivered them to the brewer’s yard. Up on the roof of one section of the brewery, we had stupendous views over the town and could see the expanse of the works, mostly hidden behind buildings and walls. 

We had booked the tour early in the week, unable to secure an earlier spot. I was pleased to discover that we were a small party of just four plus the guide, an ex-teacher with no previous brewing experience. We have found generally that the best guides of factories and the like are partly retired employees of the business, who have spent their entire working lives in the business, loyal, passionate and knowledgeable. While our guide was an extremely pleasant chap who did impart many facts and figures, as well as revealing much of his warm personality, he lacked that X-factor. Chris was not quite as enthusiastic about the tour as I was.

As with all brewery tours, we finished up at a bar tasting the produce, and had we taken full advantage of what was on offer, we would have rolled burping out the door and staggered down the street. We sipped tentatively, much of what was poured into our glasses poured down the sink, and truth be told, I didn’t enjoy the beer much. It was the first time I had tried English beer, and I am not a beer drinker at any time, except to share a small portion of a can on a hot summer day with Chris when he has just come in from mowing the lawn. Amongst those we tried were Abbot Ale, Old Speckled Hen and IPA, names that will excite some and cause them to walk out from the brewery shop with souvenir packs. Needless to say we left with nothing.

Instead we found a bench in the graveyard behind St Mary’s Church, the parish church in the Cathedral precinct. Still with beery breaths, barely relieved with sandwiches and bottled water, we headed for the Cathedral. When we called here last year, we had been distracted by the masses of school children; today we were in time for a lunchtime recital by soprano Tara Bungard and her piano accompanist, Edmund Aldhouse, both from Ely. Today’s offering was a programme of 20^th century American compositions, more specifically by Andre Previn, Aaron Copland, Dominic Argento and George Gershwin; little appreciated by my dear husband who silently pulled weird and wonderful faces at me during the recital, all of which I studiously pretended to ignore.

 I was delighted to have the opportunity to hear quality music, albeit  not all to my taste either, in such a wonderful surrounding. And today we were able to enjoy the ceiling, the retro-built tower and the wonderful architecture without the little scholars.

We wandered about the grounds immediately outside the cathedral, admiring the statue of Edmund for whom the place is named and the great tower gate still standing sentinel over the grounds. Entering St Mary’s, we were warmly greeted by a retired police officer who was even more friendly when he learned that Chris’s siblings had been married here, that his nieces and nephew had all been christened here and that he had attended on occasion as a school boy. 

It is a lovely church and has the longest nave, at 213 feet, in any English parish church. It is also the resting place of Mary Tudor, Queen of France and Duchess of Suffolk, sister of Henry VIII, and grandmother of Lady Jane Grey who was queen for days before James I was officially made King of England after Elizabeth I’s death. 

Before we headed back home, we returned to Stowmarket and visited the manor house missed the previous day. It is a lovely building and we spent some time here before popping into the nearby Asda superstore.

Our schedule for today was tight, all unnecessarily so as it turned out. We arrived at Margie’s house for an early morning tea, soon after 9 am to find her gone and fortunately spotted the scribbled note tucked in the garden near the door; she had left in a hurry to check on her unwell daughter who was not answering her phone. 

Since we had travelled the distance to Stowupland, we took advantage of the Tesco superstore and stocked up in preparation for our next few days, then returned to our camp to store everything away. From there we drove to Bury St Edmunds and found a car park in a residential street, free of parking metres and far enough from our destination to offer a little exercise.

Our tour today was at the Theatre Royal, one of eight Grade I listed theatres in the United Kingdom, the only Regency Theatre, the third oldest theatre in the country and this the only working theatre operated by the National Trust. The Theatre was opened by its proprietor and architect William Wilkins in 1819, and has changed ownership only a few times. Greene King, the brewery opposite, purchased the freehold in 1920, but the theatre ceased operation in 1925, spending the next forty years or so as a barrel store, a period that is credited with saving the property from demolition. 

In the 1960s a group of local folk raised over £37,000 to restore the theatre. It was reopened five years later and ten years later the building was vested in the National Trust on a 999 year lease, Greene King still holding the freehold. These days the theatre is managed as an independent working theatre by a management company, but it is National Trust volunteers who do the tours. Our tour guide today was an enthusiastic theatre goer and sometime performer who led us up into the gallery, the boxes in the upper circle, down onto the stage, the dressing rooms, the orchestra pit and dozens of other nooks and crannies. We were a large group, all keen to learn as much as we could about this rather unique structure and its operation. 

It was after midday by the time we emerged and made our way up into the busy bustling streets of Bury St Edmund’s market day. Today we had come without our lunch, intent on dining on street food. Chris chose the ever popular burger and chips, and I a small feast of Thai green curry, hardly a sampling of the local cuisine. We found a bench on the edge of the square, squeezed up with an odd assortment of our fellows and enjoyed the fare. The sun had come out and I was regretting my excess layers of clothing, but I was distracted from my discomfort by the promotional cries of the woman in fruit and vege store offering two for one of this and that; she was a dead ringer for a woman from back home.

We made our way back down to Angel Hill where we found dozens of Morris dancers prancing about and a good turnout of spectators. We lingered a little before escaping into the Abbey Gardens. Today we walked around the perimeter, inspecting the sad collection of caged birds, the 14^th century Abbey Bridge and the lovely peaceful rose garden, before reclaiming our car and driving across town to visit Chris’s brother, whose birthday is tomorrow. 

There we sat over cups of coffee and tried to set the world at rights; there is much consideration and discussion to be done regarding these strange times. An hour and a half later and another round of coffee, we took our leave, but only after we had a progress report on our niece’s welfare. She is safely tucked up in hospital and won’t be leaving before we ourselves are gone from Suffolk, however we are all satisfied that she is in the right place.