Selling the car

Over the last few days we’ve had a bit of concern about being able to sell our car. We’ve put ads in the windows of the car and sat it outside the local supermarket. This was quite effective, as when I turned up to collect it (after having left it there for just under two hours) a couple was looking at it, and I was able to give them one of the signs to take with them. When Celia went back to do some shopping later she also found someone interested. However, nothing came of either of those.

I also advertised it online in the Eastern Daily Press (EDP), the big Norfolk-wide daily newspaper.

Out of this I got two calls, and as well as this my brother-in-law had an inquiry from one of the people he works with. So we were feeling as though we might get it sorted.

And we did. The second person to call, a woman from Norwich, wanted to check it out today, so we went to her home on our way back from Cromer, where we’d been staying overnight with one of Celia’s brothers and his wife. We found the house via our faithful friend, Malvina, and within half an hour the car was sold, and a deposit made on it. It’s going to be picked up on Thursday morning from Attleborough.

Hallelujah! This will also give us a bit of spare cash, as we were getting very low on funds.

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.

Mundesley

Celia and I went out to Mundesley this morning. Mundesley is another seaside town along the North Norfolk coast, about seven miles from Cromer.
It was a lovely sunny morning, but the wind off the sea was very sharp. Consequently a lot of the people on the beach at Mundesley had their wind breaks up, and were sitting in jackets and jerseys. But at least they were on the beach!
Celia used to work in Mundesley, some forty years ago, as a residential child care worker. She wasn’t there long - maybe a few months - but she thought she might try and find the house where she’d worked. So of course she asked the first person she met in the street where we parked the car, and of course that woman knew exactly what she was talking about, where the house was - and told her that her sister-in-law had been cook there for 25 years. Mundesley isn’t that small a place.
So we found the house, which is now a bed and breakfast, and Celia was even granted a quick look inside. She also spoke to the old lady who’d cooked. The lady didn’t remember her - not surprising! - but it was nice to have a link to the past.

Cromer - Gem of the North Norfolk coast

We haven’t got quite so much access to the Net at the moment, so things are a bit quiet on the travel blog front At present we’re in Cromer, which is only a few miles from Sheringham, the famous town that my wife couldn’t wait to get back to and see. In fact we went been back there again a couple of days ago checking the place out, and had a look at the old alma mater (the caretaker who came out to see what we wanted had been to school there himself and originally couldn’t wait to get out of the place) and then at another part of it which I hadn’t heard about before: Upper Sheringham. This turned out to be a delightful place, not large, but with its own church, and full of those houses that are made of the local beach stones. Even the newer buildings were made to fit in with the old houses. In the centre of the village was a large round wall less than a metre high, with a gate in it. It turned out that inside the wall was a pool and the water was pouring out on either side of the gate, and presumably being channelled back into the pool again. It may originally have been a horse trough, according to my sister-in-law.
We walked into Cromer yesterday - my sister-in-law is a keen walker - and then back again a different way. Both of us have started a new regime diet-wise, as we’re both needing to deal with our weight. Being on holiday is not conducive to exercise or healthy eating. So we’ve gone onto the Weight Watchers’ approach - my sister-in-law has used it in the past, and continues on a maintenance diet - and we’re keeping track of what we’re eating. I certainly need to deal with my tendency just to munch away, and I certainly need to get some more exercise. I’m used to walking a lot more than I’m doing at present.
Anyway, we walked into Cromer and did the op-shops, and then in the afternoon we took the car part of the way and walked back into town again from there. Unfortunately, even though the weather seemed lovely when we set out, it rapidly turned off, and a chilly wind blew up, and it began to drizzle. We checked out the secondhand bookshops - there are three, but only two of them were open. The two we went into were packed with books, and I found a Studdert Kennedy (The Wicket Gate) for a couple of pounds, which I suspect was a bargain. In the morning we’d found that one of the op-shops was also a Christian bookshop, with both new and secondhand books available. I found an F W Boreham book there for 75p. His books are highly sought after - in NZ, Australia and the States anyway - so that was a bargain. Also bought a new book on Christianity and Islam, which I started to read when I got home.
We got soaked walking back to the car, so I popped into the bath to warm up, and read.
Cromer doesn’t have quite the appeal for either Celia or me - perhaps it’s because it’s so close to Sheringham. It’s still an interesting town, full of those typical English seaside buildings, three storeys high for the most part, with balconies and large windows. They only seem to appear in seaside towns. There are odd alleyways, and streets going off at peculiar angles (which isn’t good for the traffic that trawls its way through the town), and then there’s the beach. It’s way below the town - about three storeys below - and there’s even a modern lift for people who find it difficult to get down or up. We haven’t been down to the beach yet, but no doubt will as we’re here until next Wednesday, when there’s a Carnival procession.