March 29, 2012: Thompson to Sporle
Tosh and Marge rejoin the route west of Thompson.
Our landlady had an early medical appointment in Norfolk this morning and so she had asked us if we would mind breakfast at 7:45. This was fine with me – since I fancied an early start on a twelve and a half mile day. Marge and Tosh always outdid me in the breakfast category – while I prefaced my scrambled eggs on toast with a glass of juice and a little fruit they added a bowl of cereal and some yogurt to the mix as well. Our landlord was himself going to transport our bags to tonight’s b&b and he asked me for the relevant phone number so he could be sure someone was at home. As we departed shortly after 9:00 Mr. Mills showed us the cage in which he had secured the last surviving doves, a parent and one chick (now almost fully grown) and told us that he would release them in a week or so – but to what fate no one knew.
It was a very grey morning and much cooler than yesterday – for most of the day I wore my red sweatshirt; this was just as well since my arms and my waistline were now covered in insect bites from day one. I had noticed on the OS map that it would not be necessary to retrace all of yesterday’s route back to the trail; we could go back only as far as the spot where I had paused to study my maps and here take a lonely paved road due west back to the Peddars Way. I lead the way in the early going and within half an hour I had reached the critical junction, where PW finger posts revealed that we were back on route.
Marge approaches a copper beech.
Perhaps it was just as well that it was overcast today for there was even less tree cover than yesterday. Still, the walking was easy enough and the hedgerows were resplendent. Chestnut trees and hawthorns were still in bloom and we soon approached a magnificent copper beech (or perhaps two or three).
On our left was Home Farm and after three miles or so we made a turn to the left, one of those sections when west replaced north as the dominant direction – one might say, indeed, that the whole of the Peddars Way was positively Hitchcockian, north-by-northwest. We turned north again at the hamlet of Little Cressingham. (How hard it was to explain to Tosh that she was not to expect a teahouse in such a remote location.)
Lupines in Little Cressingham
When we reached a junction with Priory Road we paused to have our lunch – ham sandwiches with mustard and a banana. Farm vehicles trundled by for our amusement. While I was seated on a roadbank I decided to add some tape to the balls of my feet – for I had noticed that the friction of speedy road walking was creating some heat down there. I didn’t exactly have a blister but this would prevent further damage. And, while I had my box of bandages out, I used a tiny circle of adhesive to cover a little hole I had just spotted in my map case.
Up behind us came to walking couple from the Chequers. He had another guidebook and, as we speculated on whether there would be an open pub later this afternoon, he was able to look it up and offer a definitive no. We never saw them again.
On we plodded, soon finding one field full of cows and an adjacent one that was being harvested for fodder by huge machines. Tosh, having noted a sign advertising the proximity of medieval murals, asked some people about this and determined on a brief detour to St. Mary’s Church – while Marge and I lay down in the grass. It was becoming warmer but the sun was still not in evidence. I kept nodding off. A dog-walking couple returned to their car here and she identified several of the wildflowers for her husband (white campion, ox-eyed daisies) and fretted over the flies that were pestering the cows.
Tosh returned after half an hour and said that she had enjoyed her visit – one that she took in part to honor her late husband Harold, who was himself a medievalist. We now dropped down the side of a field (off the road at last) and began a series of dog-legs in a west-north pattern as we drew ever nearer to the town of North Pickenham. Just before doing so we met a local man, out with his Lab, who confirmed the worst of our fears: no, there was no shop open, no newsagent, and the pub wasn’t open now either. (He did tell us that at the route’s junction with the A47 we would find a McDonalds at a roundabout.)
We emerged onto a road next to a primary school and sat down on a memorial bench just as school was letting out for the day. I noticed that a finger post had lost its finger and to make certain we were heading in the right direction I got out my maps and, a rare moment on this trip, my compass. As we neared a junction with the road into the village I noted that vandals had destroyed the Peddars Way sign here too.
We used roads to pass near an airfield (from which American Liberator bombers flew in 1944) and past the entrance to a karting track. Eventually we were back in hedgerow country, enjoying another lovely footpath – here known as Procession Lane. By this time the ladies had begun to think that a cup of coffee at McDonalds might not be such a bad idea and I craved a milkshake. But as we neared a crossing track I stopped our own procession so that we could have a little conference.
Soon we would have to leave the route for our evening’s accommodation, this time in the village of Sporle. If we continued on to the A47 we would have to walk half a mile on its busy surface. I had noted, however, that if we took the crossing track at our feet in an easterly direction now, and then switched to a second track heading north, we would be just opposite the road into Sporle itself. So a decision had to be made. Eventually we decided to forego the pleasures of the golden arches and stick to rural surfaces.
I estimated that it would take no more than ten minutes to reach a northerly junction and, sure enough, a second track did take off at this point. Behind a barn, so the OS map informed me, there should have been a body of water and so I headed back here to see if I could spot it. I didn’t – but the sight of a lifebuoy hanging on a nearby fence convinced me that this was the spot I was looking for. The two ladies headed north while I stayed behind for a quiet pee and they stopped to wait for me when they neared the A47 itself.
Marge and I tiptoed across during an early break in the action but Tosh got left behind and it took another five minutes before the traffic cleared long enough for her to make a move. While we were waiting I said to Margie, “Do you realize that this is the first time today that we have sunshine?” We didn’t have it for long, as we now had only another ten minutes or so to reach Corfield House on our right. It was exactly 5:00.
Mrs. Pauline Shead was loading a wheelbarrow with weeds plucked from a resplendent front garden as we arrived. Tosh was full of questions about the flowers all about us – and it took a while before we were shown our room choices and allowed to relax. In my first floor room, facing the back garden, I had a nice shower and took a little nap.
Mr. Shead, who had broken his leg when he slipped on wet grass some time ago, was pressed into service to drive us to our evening pub on this night – it was in the nearby village of Necton, just a five minute drive away. We arrived at the Windmill pub at 7:00 and had drinks before heading for the dining room. There were newspapers here and Tosh fell on them, more hungry for news than food (though she did find the barman most comely). The food was good here and I had a rare steak (with mushrooms, pepper sauce, onion rings and fries) and drank two gin and tonics.
At 9:00 I used my mobile phone to call Mr. Shead – we had certainly made certain where we were to be waiting after last summer’s fiasco on the Northumberland Coast Path. Soon we were speeding back to Sporle and I was heading for another early night.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: