Birth and death

Yesterday we went to West Beckham, because that’s where Celia was born. In a maternity home that had formerly been a workhouse, supposedly. A workhouse is something that you’ll read about in Charles Dickens’ books, and they were pretty awful places then; somewhere for people who couldn’t afford to spend their last days in any comfort. By the mid-fifties of last century, the few that left were better, but still had a bad name.

Anyway, we found the West Beckham church, which is actually the East and West Beckham church, because the two parishes amalgamated sometime back in the late 19^th century, when the churches, which had fallen into great disrepair, were rebuilt on the West Beckham site. Unlike the rest of the churches around Norfolk, this one is built almost entirely of Sheringham beach stones – inside and out. I’ll add a photo in due course. It’s in good condition, being a lot newer than the average 900-year-old church, though apart from the stones it isn’t particularly distinguished in design. The arch over the front door was apparently rebuilt from leftovers of the East Beckham church.

Well, to get into the church, we had to go next door and get a key. The guy there went off to get his wife, who had the key, and when they came back, Celia asked about the maternity home, saying she’d been born there.

The guy’s reaction was that it was a wonder she survived: the place had been notorious for lack of care and infant mortality. And yes, it had been a workhouse once. And it still exists, except that the roof has all caved in, and it’s inaccessible. His wife was greatly amused that someone standing in front of her should have been born there.

The current owner is having long debates with the Council about what’s going to happen to it, so he’s put barbed wire all around. We managed to get a photo or two of some of it, but the hedges are very high around it as well. I’ll add these in due course.

Celia also wanted to track down a former teacher – her favourite. She’d met up with her former art teacher the night before, and decided to see if she could find this other man, who would now be in his eighties. We found his address in a phone book in Holt, put on the Sat Nav for Hunworth, and, after asking at two different houses in that village, found the house where he’d lived. But he’d gone onto a rest home in another village with the marvellous (and very English) name of Hindolveston. (I kid you not.)

Put Hindolveston in the Sat Nav, and again, after asking someone where the rest home was (none of these places have street addresses, only names), found it. Celia went in and there was her teacher, a skeleton of a man, still very alert (though he didn’t actually remember her) and pleased to have a visitor.

Finally, on the way home, we dropped in at Weyborne, a lovely village by the beach. It’s unspoilt, never having taken off like its great coastal cousins, Sheringham and Cromer. And the beach would be like any typical country beach in NZ if it weren’t for the fact that it’s all stones and no sand.