August 1, 2012: Wells-Next-The-Sea to Cley-Next-The-Sea
After leaving Wells ¬– sea lavender dominates the scene.
I added a sausage and some hash browns to my breakfast menu this morning – as Gavan and I again sat down at 8:30. Naturally I had been studying the skies from every available window at the Armeria Guest House and it did seem far brighter today than yesterday. Cheryl, who said we could leave our bags in our room, suggested that it would not rain today until 4:00 or so and thus, encouraged by this forecast, we headed out at 9:30.
We had been debating whether to attempt a direct return to the coast by walking on the A149 (there did seem to be a pedestrian pavement) and then using existing rights of way to get up to the path – but Gavan decided, more conservatively, to head back into town. (This extra distance to and from our b&b was among the factors leading me to conclude that our mileage for this path would be 48, not the 47 advertised on the finger post at Hunstanton.) At any rate, Gavan wanted me to visit the Big Blue Sky across the street – he had already worked out with the proprietor that she was to let him know what the mailing costs would be for a large photo he wanted to her to ship him.
A few minutes later, after passing a number of now familiar corners, we had returned to Wells Harbor – which is the only working harbor still left on the coast of North Norfolk. It took us a while to leave behind the maritime scene, with its boats and yacht clubs, but at last we were heading east again along an easy path, with the sea ever receding on our left and salt marshes and arable land appearing on the right. It was a bright morning and the walking was easy except for those sections of the path recently trimmed – for no effort had been made to pick up the severed foliage and this made footing a bit difficult.
Approaching Morston
There were a number of rival routes to choose from and, increasingly, lots of other people and their dogs about. This is usually a sign that you are nearing a parking lot and so it was – for the village of Stiffkey was just inland. It had been my intention to seek a pub in the next town, Morston, but as we approached its quay Gavan discovered that the National Trust had colonized this popular spot and that a kiosk offered various seafood concoctions – including crab sandwiches. So, at 12:50, we sat down at a picnic table and enjoyed this treat, with Gavan also indulging in a tub of crayfish. The wind was getting up and there were a few drops so I decided to put my rain pants on. A butcher came by to make a delivery and stopped long enough to buy a ice cream come with a flake bar; inspired, Gavan had to have one of these as well.
We left the crowded holiday scene behind at 1:30 in order to follow a grassy path atop an elevated bank that gradually turned inland – with Agar Creek on the left. I had my rain jacket on and off a number of times but there was never any substantial moisture. Soon enough we were greeted by the red brick buildings of Blakeney – another substantial village and one that I had once visited when Dorothy and I attended a nearby wedding over twenty years ago. Truth to tell, there did not seem to be anything familiar in the harborside scene, which we reached shortly after 2:00. Gavan was already hunting up a pub and we found one in the nearby King’s Arms.
I was very sticky after walking in my raingear and, after we had located an inside table, I shed several layers. Our pints were particularly welcome and we had a good view of the locals at lunch. The place was very busy, with the barman pressed into additional duties in delivering food and picking up empty glasses. On the wall Gavan discovered a poster for the Black and White Minstrels – shocked that an ensemble so adamantly politically incorrect could still evoke nostalgia.
After forty minutes or so we gathered our gear together and headed out along the sea front, discovering, to our surprise, that our barman has having a quiet fag and a cuppa at a kiosk five minutes from his place of work. We now had a late afternoon stroll atop the sea bank as it swept in a gentle half circle around Blakeney Eye before heading inland with the River Glaven toward our night’s destination, Cley. There were lots of people about and some of them must have experienced an unforgettable image as – my legs tired from all this walking – I tripped on an upraised stone and went hurtling forward. I somehow managed to remain upright but when I straightened up I could feel that I had somehow strained the top of my right foot – which continued to pulsate for the next hour or so. I think I was staggering as much as walking by this point anyway.
The famous Cley Windmill
Gavan, well ahead, saw nothing of this incident. He was intent on making progress toward our village – which was dominated by the presence of the famous Cley Windmill. I seemed to take forever to get anywhere near it but at last we pulled even, crossed a sluice, and reached the traffic-jammed roads of Cley itself. After dodging traffic for several minutes our road, now heading seaward again, reached our night’s b&b, Cookes of Cley.
Our host directed us to our room on the first floor and advised us that his tearoom offered no evening meals. We would have called the George Hotel, which was had just passed, but I could get no signal here at all and Gavan walked down to the place to request a table for 6:30. I had my usual nap and my welcome shower and was happy to discover, that, freed from its boot, my foot didn’t seem too troublesome. I had the haddock and chips at the George and another pint but we disdained dessert this time – making our way back to our b&b in time for the evening’s Olympic coverage.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: