4 April 2015 - The Old Stracey, Kirby Bedon, Norwich, Norfolk

We were horrified this morning to discover the damage wrecked upon our hired motorhome by a hay bale. I had mentioned yesterday that our host, Mr Farmer, had removed hay bales from our entry to the equestrian arena. It was raining at the time and I had sat in the cab thinking I should get out and help this man clad in overalls and certainly no younger than I, but then decided that I was weak, dry and demure (well, perhaps not the last) and so watched him struggle. Had we, Chris and I together, climbed down out of the cab and helped him clear the route properly, we may not have ended up with lengths of dirty straw caught in every uneven joint, the screw on the indicator light hanging out, a hairline crack evident on the bodywork, and a glued label plate turned up at the corner. None of this made for a good start to the morning, as you may well imagine.

We passed the responsibility of our exit from the Sheffield area to Mavis; she instructed us to head almost north to Doncaster on the M18, before bringing us south again on the A1. I would have brought us directly eastward from our camp, but then we might, just might, have become caught up in traffic snarls, although I think not; today was Easter Saturday and the early morning motorists were few.

After that roundabout start, we took the most direct route to our next general direction, south on the A1 to Newark-on-Trent, then south east on the A17 through to King’s Lynn on the southern shore of The Wash.

As we travelled across the southern parts of Lincolnshire, we crossed wide drains; the South Forty Foot Drain, the Glen Welland, and the Nene. We were crossing the Fens, a term I had often heard but never really understood.

One of the strangest of all English landscapes, the fens cover a vast area of eastern England from just north of Cambridge right up to Boston in Lincolnshire, a little to the north of our route today. For centuries they were an inhospitable wilderness with bogs and marshland, scattered with clay islands on which small communities eked out a living cutting peak for fuel, using reeds for thatching and living on a diet of fish and wildfowl. Attempts were made to reclaim the land during the Middle Ages, but it wasn’t until the seventeenth century that systematic draining of the Fens was undertaken, amid fierce opposition, by a Dutch engineer Cornelius Vermuyden. This wholesale drainage had unforeseen consequences; as it dried  out, the peaty soil shrank beneath the level of the rivers, causing frequent flooding, and the regions windmills, which had previously been vital in keeping the waters at bay, now compounded the problem by causing further shrinkage. The engineers had to do some backtracking and the task of draining the fens was only completed in the 1820s following the introduction of steam driven pumps  which could control water levels with much greater precision than the windmills had been able to. Today, the Fens comprise some of the most fertile agricultural land in Europe.

Today, much of it was laying bare, either ready for sowing, or recently sown waiting for the warm sunshine to germinate the seed. We saw some fields of rape, or canola, the first blooms appearing, to us rather premature, given the recent cold days and seemingly late arrival of Spring. Further on, we came to expansive fields, bright yellow, which in the first instance reminded us of canola crops seen in Australia, but these were something else entirely; daffodils and jonquils in enormous commercial quantities ready for harvesting.

We arrived in King’s Lynn, known as Bishop’s Lynn until the Reformation. In the Middle Ages the town was one of England’s most prosperous ports, shipping grain and wood from the surrounding countryside to Europe. The downscaled port operations on the banks of the River Ouse, the Trinity Guildhall and St Margaret’s Church are the few points of interest to the passing traveller. We found the modern shopping centre on the edge of the town, parked up, shopped at the Tesco supermarket and ate lunch, uninterrupted by parking wardens before setting off on our drive along the coast of North Norfolk.

Our first destination, if a drive-by can be considered as such, was Sandringham House, where the Royal family spend at least every Christmas. This large Norfolk estate has been in royal hands since 1862 when Queen Victoria bought it for her idle son, the Prince of Wales. Here he could occupy himself hunting and shooting, considered more constructive pursuits than the frequenting of bawdy houses. The 18^th century was elaborately refurbished by the prince and now retains an Edwardian atmosphere. The large stables are now a museum and the grounds are open to the public for a fee. Today there were hundreds of loyal subjects drifting to and from the entrance, and even more taking advantage of the extensive grounds. Our itinerary had not allowed for time here so we drove on, now satisfied we could visualise its location when we  next heard it mentioned on the news.

Back on the coastal road, we could see hundreds of wind turbines out in the Wash, and then again, later further east. Research since has suggested this is the Lynn and Inner Dowsing Wind Farm, located in the North Sea, rather than The Wash, as I had understood. The fifty four wind turbines were completed in 2008 and have a generating capacity of 194 MW, enough to power 130,000 homes on average.

This offshore wind farm cost more than 300 million GBP and was built in depths of up to 18 metres of water, in less than two years. The foundations were driven to a depth of around twenty two metres below the seabed. I was disappointed that we did not come upon a comprehensive information centre.

We called into the seaside town of Hunstanton, the official beginning of the Norfolk coast. Today there were thousands here, walking about the town, along the beach and the top of the cliffs that are apparently stripy and quite attractive. The low-key seaside towns along this northern shore have drawn tourists for over a century. Beyond Sheringham, further to the east, today frantic with day trippers, the shoreline becomes a ragged patchwork of salt marshes, dunes and shingle spits which form an almost unbroken series of nature reserves, these too attracting the more energetic tourists today.

In fact the roads were crowded, and the narrow streets literally jammed with traffic. We sat in a street for five to ten minutes while queues untangled themselves from the single lane labyrinth. We had already given up on the thought of joining the crowds on the beach, the piers, the streets; parking was impossible, but even the roads were impossible. 

Brancaster Straithe is famous for its oysters, but then so does every other settlement along the coast seem so. Crabs and all manner of seafood is for sale in kiosks, cafes and pubs. Everywhere we saw long queues of people outside fish and chip shops. We managed to find a spot down on the shoreline, a rather odd place for someone used to New Zealand and Australian coasts. Here at Brancaster Straithe, the sea has left muddy inlets and stranded boats, and more interestingly a long history documented on interpretative panels near the stall selling crab snacks.

Brancaster Harbour was once a busy port, sailing ships carried cargoes of coal and grain for a malt house said to be the biggest in England. Trade declined in the 1800s, but a thriving fishing industry survives, and these days the harbour is busier with pleasure craft, although today, most of the boats still seemed to be in winter hibernation.

In the far distant past, Branodunum was the northernmost of a string of Roman forts on the east coast confusingly called Saxon Shore forts. The garrison at Brancaster would have been manned by a unit of cavalry of up to five hundred men and their horses from Dalmatia, built around 250 AD, three metre high walls survived into the 17^th century. It is claimed that the stones were taken for various buildings in the village including the church at Brancaster. Now all that now remains is a grass field with crop marks and east and west defensive ditches.

Brancaster Estate forms part of a unique coastal common. Most common rights in Britain relate to a patch of land that a commoner can graze. At Brancaster the rights relate to a range of activities and commoners can have rights, amongst others, to collect samphire, gather shellfish, take wildfowl or graze marshes. Originally common rights were created to help local people make a living from the land; today these rights also help to protect the land by giving local people a vested interest and legal rights.

We had also wanted to call into Wells-next-the-Sea and Cromer, but today was not the day for motorhomers; perhaps we shall have to return another year and with another travel modus operandi. We have come to the conclusion that motorhoming is not the best way to see England.

On a positive note however, it was about then that the sun came out. There had been rain showers all day, or at least until lunchtime, although the day had remained bleak, dismal, more of the same old, same old, so the advent of the sunshine was indeed a joy. 

Giving up on delving into these quaint little towns and intimate streets, we headed south toward our camp, a Certified Location immediately to the south of Norwich, travelling on better roads, and soon with Mavis’s help, in the thick of Norwich’s centre. Again I would have suggested a more roundabout but easier route, but then sometimes it is easier to remain silent.

We found our accommodation without any problems, “a gate immediately after a cream house”. Our host, a character straight out of a Dicken’s film, unlocked the gate and led us into his delightful garden, immaculate, planted out in well planned blooms, devoid of destructive moles. He explained the charms of this tiny village and we duly went off to explore once we were set up.

Immediately behind the property stands what appears in the first instance the remains of a Norman tower, but on further exploration, proves to be the ruins of a large stone church. Across the road is yet another lovely church, this one amid a fenced enclosure of daffodils.

The village of Kirby Bedon has two medieval churches next door to each other, the ruined church dedicated to St Mary and the parish church of St Andrew still in operation. Both churches have walls built of large broken flints in nest courses, suggesting they were built within a few years of each other. 

Norfolk apparently has around one hundred ruined churches, many more than any other county. Many of these are of great architectural interest and landscape importance and the Ruined Churches Repair Programme set up in 1992 – 1997 does its best to save what it can.

Unfortunately the ruins of St Mary’s visible from our camp is in such disrepair, orange plastic fencing surrounds it as a deterrent and danger notices succeed in keeping even nosy Kiwis out.

Tomorrow will be Easter Sunday, the day the World shuts down, or at least that part of the world based on Christianity. The cupboards are full, or at least as much as they need to be for the remaining days of our travel, lunch is packed for an early getaway, and we just hope that the Park & Ride system is operating.

3 April 2015 - Lightwood Farm, Norton, Sheffield

It really was no surprise to hear the rain through the night, to lift the blinds to the same and see that our camping ground was even boggier than the night before; we had been warned by the very friendly scruffy chap who had been so helpful the night before. We were therefore very happy to find ourselves driving up the hill out of the camp without event and out on the road south toward our next destination.

As we had sat over our last lunch with Chris’s siblings before meeting with Herr Ben at the motorhome pickup, discussing probable and equally improbable places we might manage to visit on our very brief tour, John suggested that the A57 over Snake Pass between Glossop and Sheffield was particularly stunning. He had not allowed for fog, rain or anything but clear weather; nor had we. However last night during the altercation over our tour arrangements, I had reminded my dear husband of his older brother’s suggestion, and so we had brought out the maps and reconsidered our options. This is why our route today was a rather convoluted zigzag south down to the Peak District and across into the has-been steel industrial centres of the country.

Our route followed the A6160 down through the Dales, across lovely farmland, albeit rather waterlogged from the second dose of overnight rain. The tiny lambs here had no need of the little feed-bag coats we had seen on those around Borrowdale yesterday, but still appeared bedraggled although less than their mothers who still had their long woollen coats on. We passed over many high passes today, the first a little north to Buckden, the peak of the same name rising to 702 metres. Here at the top, we rose into the dense fog, and this was to be repeated time and again during the day, a disappointment for the avid photographer and record keeper, namely myself.

Near Kilnsey, we passed a rather unusual geological formation, high cliffs standing high above the road and totally out of character from the surrounding countryside. Near here too we passed Kilnsey Park, full of patrons, all standing around a couple of ponds, artificially filled with fish for which these recreational fishermen had paid to dabble their rods, with a high likelihood of catching tomorrow’s dinner. Coming from a country where the wild is the wild, and the birds and fish are free, this did seem rather peculiar.

On south we came, now following the Wharfe River, through Wharfedale, a beautiful countryside, passing through lovely Burnsall, a place I would dearly have loved to stop and walk about, but there was nowhere to stop, as per usual.

We came upon a fascinating village, the ruins of Bolton Abbey and a few support buildings. I quickly looked this up in our guide and was delighted to find that entry was free. We eventually found the car park where we could park up and walk about the area, but the chauffeur was most unhappy to learn that the parking fee was 8 GBP (NZ$16). Now this could be considered reasonable if you were to spend a good part of the day there, but we were only intending to call for an hour or less, and thought it unreasonable; most likely a case of cutting off our nose to spite our face, a common fault of ours these days, and in fact right throughout our time travelling.

We continued on down through Addingham and Silsden now on the A6034, then Keighly and Haworth where one can find the Bronte Personage Museum, on the A6033, up across Wadsworth Moor which today seemed like the remote desolate moors of the Bronte novels; moss, red tussock and dead heather, although in their day, there were no bus stops along the way.

We arrived at Hebden Bridge with the intention of pulling in and lunching, but this quaint riverside village is jammed down tight streets and steep hills, today full of holidaymakers, many enjoying a medieval street play. Alas, there was no space in the car parks, nor on the side of the roads, so we left, fortunately finding a road not too much further on, wide enough to allow us to pull to one side.

After lunch we handed the navigational reins over to Mavis who guided us through the complex roundabouts and motorway network about Halifax and Huddersfield, then took over again at Holmfirth, a satellite village on the outskirts of the industrial towns we had been led through, now in the Holm Valley, then up through another mist covered pass on the Heyden Moor, this at 524 metres. We came down into Longdendale and followed the banks of the Torside Reservoir westward to Glossup, and then set out east across the Peak National Park on the A57, up and over Snake Pass at 512 metres ASL, down through the Hope Woodlands to the Ladybower Reservoir, a picturesque spot with no space for the casual photographer.

I asked Chris to pull into the next layby so that we could formalise a plan for our entry into Sheffield, but alas there was none. We soon found ourselves driving up into the city streets of Sheffield, still with no plan. I was speed reading the Rough Guide in search of a tourist attraction or National Trust place where we might hang about until it was time to arrive at our camp. I spotted mention of the Meadowhall shopping centre, located in an old steelworks and billed as one of Europe’s biggest malls, so we had Mavis take us through the centre of the city and across to the shopping mall, which turned out to be very near Rotherham.

Entering the parking area, we saw that the entire population of Sheffield and surrounds was avoiding the rain under cover, exercising their credit cards. Our expectations were almost non-existent, so we were very pleasantly surprised to find a space just right for our needs. We spent almost an hour walking about, or rather, avoiding the crowds of shoppers, folk of all ages, all better dressed than I who was, still wearing my tramping boots donned to deal with the muddy grounds of the early morning.

After finding the shopping centre like most large ones visited before, especially those in Melbourne accorded the same celebrity size status, we returned to the camper and found our way around the south side of the city to our camp, less than a mile from the busy city streets, on a farm of about 180 acres, once carrying dairy stock, now appearing to carry horses for equestrian entertainment and a few dry cattle intent on munching their way through great rolls of hay.

We arrived to find Mr Farmer farewelling an official gentleman at his door, perhaps his bank manager or the like, but otherwise alone and at a loss as to where his wife who deals with Caravan Club matters, still absent. The field normally offered for such activities is a mire, and he was not sure where she thought we should be directed. Soon she arrived with horse truck, having taken a couple of ponies and their recently laundered farm dogs to a rest home for the afternoon. It seemed the visit had been very successful, the staff reported that some of the inmates had smiled and shown a measure of pleasure not expressed in recent memory.  Kay soon had us organised, directing us into her equestrian arena onto the mushy sand. Alas their power was off;  a transformer had blown yesterday and the replacement generator had failed. Mr Farmer took our 10 GBP and promised a refund if the power did not come back on this evening. I am pleased to report that we do now have power, hence I am able to write the day’s events up.

And to consider the merits of Snake Pass? It was a lovely drive, and would have been even better had the weather been less hideous, but we have crossed other passes and climbed other heights over the past week or so, and we would suggest there are other lovelier spots than Snake Pass. But I shall say it was far better to have taken this route today than be lingering in York with no accommodation, and we are all much happier tonight than last.

2 April 2015 - Aysgarth Falls Hotel, Aysgarth, Yorkshire Dales

What a delight to open the curtains this morning on blue sky, albeit pale blue British sky, but still harbinger of a fine day. The dusting of snow on the immediate heights had disappeared and we looked forward to an entirely different day to those before. We had slept late but made up for lost time, dumping and refilling with water before leaving Stybeck Farm, heading the thirteen short miles north west to Keswick, a small market town, more significant than the other picture postcard tourist villages of the area. We did find it quite charming and had intended to park and wander about, but yet again parking proved to be a problem, expensive and irritating, particularly to the chauffeur, so our exploration and intended shopping in Keswick was abandoned and we continued on our planned route. 

This took us south down the eastern shore of lovely Derwent Water, a road bordered by hedges and un-pruned trees that were an absolute nightmare to our progress whenever we met oncoming traffic. We found a spot along the lakeside, complete with parking meter, but with concession for National Trust members; I took the opportunity to take several photos and engage in conversation with a couple from York, a spot we intended at that point, to head toward later in the day.

We continued down the Borrowdale Valley, along the Derwent River, then turned at Seatoller up over the Honister Pass at an elevation of 358 metres ASL, accessed by an incredibly steep road “not suitable for caravans” with inclines of 25% that seemed so much more. Chris reckoned he had never driven such a steep road in his life, and I know from previous travelling accounts, I have written these words before; today, this one took the cake.

At the top of the Pass, thankfully after having met no oncoming vehicles, we arrived at the Slate Mine, a tourist attraction for those willing to pay the required fee. Tight-wads that we are, we made do with the stunning scenery, great slides of slate all about, sculptures created from the same, and the incredibly steep decline below us. Again, we were pleased to meet no-one on the descent, although traffic became much heavier within the next twenty minutes. I was glad that we had missed Keswick, or we would have been amidst all this road chaos, and as it was, we met more than a few motorists who mouthed exclamations that seemed to suggest that they were disapproving of motorhomes being on the narrow roads about The Lakes.

We pressed on delighting in the scenery about Buttermere and Crummock Water, then north to Cockermouth, a small town full of very ordinary people and several tourist attractions including Wordsworth House, that which William and his sister, Dorothy, were born and brought up as children before they and their siblings were split up after their parents died. William Wordsworth’s father had an elevated position as an estate agent for a large landowner and Member of Parliament, and with that position came this fine eighteenth century house, today owned by the National Trust. We spent just over an hour wandering about the town and the esteemed poet’s childhood residence, shopping and enjoying walking in the dry weather.

I was interested to hear one of the volunteers in the centre speak of the 2009 floods in Cockermouth, the photos of the devastation wrecked upon the House and garden and other parts of the town, drawing attention particularly to that suffered by her friends in the town. She, fortunately, lives toward the west coast, and was not personally affected, apart from being part of the clean up here at Wordsworth House.

From here we headed back toward Keswick, this time on the busy A66 along the western shores of Bassenthwaite Lake and remained on this all the way east to Penrith where we found a park in the Morrison’s superstore car park, shopped again to justify doing so, then wandered down into this thriving market town with its labyrinth of little streets, squares and quaint shops. Here too the people were ordinary folk, and in saying that, I mean they were not obvious tourists, or climbers and hikers clad in smart and trendy hiking and mountain clothing.  

I was absolutely delighted to see the snow clad Pennines beyond Penrith; in the sunshine snow scenes have a much more pleasing aspect. Today Penrith has a population of just over 15,000 and sits at an elevation of 132 metres ASL. For centuries Penrith has served as a market town for farms and villages in the area. The Agricultural Hotel was built in 1807 and cattle auctions were held there every week. There were numerous warehouses and agricultural shops; the town was a practical place to serve the region. And yet it was also a place that housed and inspired the famous Lakeland Poets and they are remembered in the Poets Walk we wandered down through today.

The elegant Georgian houses that overlook St Andrew’s Church reveal how prosperous Penrith was two hundred and fifty years ago. Its markets were thriving and business was good for the town’s tanners, dyers and weavers. Wealthy local families built grand houses that reflected their success and status. We wandered through the Devonshire Arcade still busy today with little shops and stalls selling fresh produce. The former Market Arcade was built by the Local Board of Health in the 1860s to access the Market Hall. Stallholders sold fresh fruit and vegetables, dairy produce and poultry here. Penrith is not a place that features on the tourist routes and pales beside the picture postcard scenery and landscapes of The Lake District immediately to the west, but it is still well worth a look-see.

We continued on eastwards along the A66, the traffic becoming heavier; we thought much of it could be attributed to those making an early start to their Easter Weekend. We left the busy road at Brough and headed south west on the A685 to Kirkby Stephen, yet another attractive village, then turned south on to the A683 across wonderful rural landscape to Sedburgh, an even lovelier village. We changed direction once more, this time eastward onto the A684, climbing up to even higher elevations now on the Yorkshire Dales. We pulled into a car park with interpretative panels and admired the views back over Sedburgh and about, of the rounded hills that are the Howgill Fells, and the huge fault in the earth’s crust where the ancient rocks of the Howgills have been forced up high above the younger limestone of the Dales. This geological phenomenon was first identified by locally born Adam Sedgwick, a teacher at Cambridge University, known as the father of British Geology.

Aside from learning about the geological wonders of the area, we suddenly noticed we had company; a couple of wild Yorkshire ponies, although to call them “wild” is surely a misnomer. While their coats were un-groomed, they were in good condition and happy to make our acquaintance. This was indeed a bonus to our trip!

We continued on across the limestone hills and valleys of the Dales, through lovely rural countryside, far more populous and fertile than I had believed the Yorkshire Dales to be. We passed through Hawes, the chief town of the local area of Wesleydale, a main hiking centre, which also draws tourists for its cheese and rope making industries. It also claims to be Yorkshire’s highest market town, and at an elevation of 270 metres ASL, it probably is. Still host to weekly farmers markets, the town received its market charter in 1699. Today the town was very busy, parking would have been impossible had we wished to hang about, and we were surprised that so many folk had already arrived for the weekend.

Further east is the lovely small village of Bainbridge where the river we had been following for some time, cascades down through the town and under a charming stone bridge. I joined a chap on the bridge to take the obligatory photos, while Chris stayed in the camper up the road, parked tight against a stone wall, the engine still running, ready to move if anything bigger than a small sedan came by.

On again, and we came to the turn off to Askrigg, six miles to the north still visible from the road but far enough away for film crews to not bother with extraneous and unwanted voyeurs. It was here that the TV series All Creatures Great and Small was filmed in and around.

And then we arrived in Aysgarth, this yet another bonus. We had booked our CL camp simply by finding the number on the map and figuring it looked like it might be well located for our trip ahead. Imagine our delight to find that here is a wonderful waterfall, a three stage spectacular cascade, walking distance from our camp.

We walked down to the river and along the banks to take this all in after we settled into camp, easier said than done. The camping area down behind the hotel is a little steep, very wet and muddy and I did wonder how were would manage to find a suitable spot. However the “caretaker” guy who is in charge of the camping area was most helpful and eventually had us set up in a corner well removed from the other three here, and hitched up with four power cords all strung together across the paddock.

Because of the mucking about, and our late walk down to the river, dinner was late and we spent nearly an hour chasing a camping spot for the next few nights. We had intended to head to York, perhaps to spend two nights nearby, however all Caravan Club sites and CLs are booked out. Chris was most annoyed at this, and suggested we should simply just go on in and if necessary camp beside the road. This of course would not be acceptable for us or the authorities, but there was no moving his resolve until much later when I suggested we re-plan our route and head in an entirely different direction. Much discussion followed and we have now agreed that we will head south tomorrow rather than the easterly direction previously intended, down to the Peak District. We have managed to book a CL for tomorrow and will take it from there. This might not have happened if we had been able to telephone from our camp last night, although I suspect that the travellers who are about to inundate York tomorrow will have had their bookings organised for weeks and weeks.