After the terrible winter (1963 was worse,) the year that gas ran out (no it didn’t, but the media tried to convince us that it would) and all the road salt was stolen by OAPs gritting their drives despite not actually going anywhere because of the snow, we decided it was time for a holiday. Going away is problematic for a number of reasons. It has to be dog friendly, isolated and close enough for our clown car to get there without disintegrating. Honk, honk! Scarborough dog rescue isn’t much fun at this time of year so we settled for a cottage in Blakeney on the Norfolk coast instead.
In my experience, booking so-called “dog friendly” cottages is an excuse for the owner to charge extra for slightly tatty accommodation. They assume that your pooch will defecate, urinate and puke over every square inch of floor covering. That you will allow Fido to sleep on anything that is soft and designed for human comfort and will leave all manner of parasites, hair and strange and unpleasant odours for the next guests (although I can manage the latter on my own, dog or not.) This time we decided to spend a little extra and get something a bit more up-market through the highly recommended Blakeney Bolt-Holes website. We weren’t disappointed.
Our cottage, The Washhouse, was magnificent. Clearly designed by the art director of the film Minority Report rather than Slum-Dog Millionaire, you needed a degree in Mechanical Engineering to figure out how to make stuff work. For example, the tap in the kitchen looked like an Antony Gormley public art installation. The huge stainless steel contraption had levers, coiled hoses and unmarked tilt-and-turn knobs that made it look like the user interface to the TARDIS. It took me ten minutes to extract a thimble full of hot water and, to this day, I have no idea how I managed it. We lived in constant fear of jet washing the immaculately finished walls by pulling the wrong lever. And then there was the control system for the under floor heating. We sussed that out after a quick call to Stephen Hawking. “The new inflationary model of the universe is a good attempt to explain the thermostat settings, but repulsive gravitational effects keep the temperature in the bedroom at 21 degrees.” Thanks, Steve. Bye.
Joking aside, The Washhouse was the best equipped cottage we’ve ever stayed in, bar none. It had an induction hob, telephone, flat screen TV with Dolby surround sound, built-in microwave and those unslammable drawers that close slowly by anti-repulsive gravitational magic. It was like a lock-in at John Lewis, the UK's favourite retailer for the best in furniture, home wares, electrical, fashion and gifts. My favourite gizmos were the electrically retractable skylight covers. By throwing a switch on the wall you could open and close the covers on a pair of 2 metre square skylights in the roof. We dubbed this “doing a Tracy Island” and accompanied the act by humming the “Thunderbirds March.” You could lie in bed at night and watch the stars. Well, not exactly. When you opened the covers the bedroom was flooded with freezing cold air and that spoiled the effect somewhat.
Blakeney in March is a peaceful place. At the weekends the pub and seafood restaurants are busy with well behaved, well-to-do southerners that vanish during the week, leaving a few die-hard nature lovers. The weather was dry, bright but cold with a biting easterly that has been the feature of this year’s winter. We spent a lot of time walking the marshes and birding until our extremities froze, forcing us back inside to consume lots of the things that you only eat on holiday. I’m talking chocolate, crisps, Eccles Cakes, bags of liquorice, heaps of complimentary Quality Street, etc. I was particularly fascinated by the designer cappuccino maker in the kitchen. After a quick call to Gino D’Acampo, I managed to make a refreshing cup of tepid, frothy milk from the machine that sounded like a cat coughing up a fur ball. Thanks, but I’ll stick to my fairly traded, freeze-dried Clipper from Tesco.
Half way through the week we risked driving the Model T (honk, honk,) a few miles west along the coast road to Wells-next-the-Sea. When I was eleven years old, I stayed in Wells on a family holiday with my parents, auntie, uncle and cousins in a large static caravan. I haven’t been back since so it was a bit of a nostalgic trip. I was surprised to discover that the caravan park is still there and so is the pub, The Ark Royal that we used to sit outside and consume fizzy Vimto and cheese and onion crisps. When I burp, I can still taste them. The town has hardly changed in almost forty years, apart from a large disused warehouse by the harbour that’s been converted, naturally, into swish apartments. We spent the day birding, taking photos and walking on the Peddars Way coastal path before various useful body parts froze and fell off and we drove back to Blakeney.
By the end of the week we’d managed to spot several new species of bird including Snipe, Fieldfare, Pochard, Merganser and Mandarin. There were a few “mystery” ducks that we failed to identify. After a quick call to grumpy Bill Oddie, who told me to f**k off, I concluded that they were ornamental Wood Ducks bred for eye candy and orange sauce so they don’t count. The journey home was uneventful apart from the new high-pitched squealing feature that the car’s engine developed somewhere near King’s Lynn. Honk, honk.