A Final Fling in the Norfolk Broads

My last stop. A long weekend in the Norfolk Broads then back home to Australia. What better way to do the Broads than to follow the 'Coot Club' route.

Arthur Ransome wrote thirteen books in what is known as the Swallows and Amazons series. When I was in the UK in 2010 I did the Swallows and Amazons 'Wildcat Island Cruise', see the blog of that day here. This time in the Norfolk Broads I'm following the adventures of another set of Ransome's characters, Dick and Dorothea, visitors to Norfolk, and the members of the Coot Club, all local sailors on the Broads and keen bird watchers.

The Coot Club members live in the picturesque village of Horning on the River Bure and their adventures take them up and down the Broads rivers and dykes and the various broads themselves.

At Horning there is a glamorous river-boat named the Southern Comfort which cruises down river from Horning to Ranworth Dyke, through the dyke and into Malthouse Broad taking 1 ½ hours for the round trip. This is one of the routes taken by the Coot Club sailors, except that in the 1930s when Ransome knew the Broads, one could sail into the nearby Ranworth Broad which is not possible today as it is a protected area. Our skipper on board the Southern Comfort points out the various places mentioned in the Coot Club books.

Dick and Dot are just learning to sail and so the children, being supervised by the elderly lady - herself an old sailor - who has hired a yacht, sail up to Horsey Mere for some lessons in the quieter waters to be found there. An ancient bridge at Potter Heigham proves to be impassable for many craft so they keep to the more southerly waters making Horsey an altogether more peaceful spot.

At Horsey I found a National Trust windmill and a wildlife cruise, independent of the Trust. Ross, of Ross's Wildlife Cruises, is a complete original. His old boat, the Lady Ann is home to a swallow's nest where numerous broods have been raised over the last two seasons. The BBC have recently filmed a segment on board about the swallows.

Ross's tour lasts for an hour or more and he makes it up as he goes along. He decided on a whim to take us up the neglected Wexham New Cut dyke to show us a derelict windmill. He chatted away as he manoeuvred the boat up the narrow dyke but his sharp eye was constantly on the lookout for interesting wildlife.

We were just a short way up the dyke when a kingfisher dipped across the water and disappeared into the bushes. These shy birds are not readily seen so we considered the trip well worthwhile from that point on.

What our skipper doesn't know about the wildlife of the Broads is not worth knowing. With a marsh harrier overhead and assorted dragonflies flitting around the boat we made out way to the old mill, who's skeletal sails and crumbling brickwork present an eerie picture among the whispering reeds.

We had a demonstration of quanting, the method of moving a boat along by means of a long pole, when the boat had to be turned in the narrow dyke and moved over some very shallow water.

The trip was enjoyed by all and I asked Ross if he would sign my Coot Club book. It turned out that he was a kindred spirit having auditioned for a part in the film version of Coot Club in the 1980s and been in the final three but missed getting the roll.

Of the other ports of call entered in the ship's log of the Teasel, sailed by the Coot Club, I made it to Ranworth, Acle, Potter Heigham, Beccles and Reedham where I was staying. All great places for cycling and enjoying the beauty of the Broads.

The waterways are much busier now than in Ransome's time and who knows, he might have to share some of the blame for that himself.

Star-gazing

For my eleventh birthday on the 6^th October, 1957, I got a bamboo hoop, the latest craze. That evening I stood in the back garden of 13 Upper Skene Street, twirling my hoop and waiting with Mum, Dad, Michael and Nick, the dog, for the Russian Sputnik (as we called it) to come into view.

Sputnik 1 was launched on the 4^th October, 1957 and the whole world looked skyward. Quite near to where I've been based in Cheshire for the last couple of weeks is the Jodrell Bank space observatory. It was from here that the observatory's brand-new radio telescope was able to track the rocket that sent Sputnik 1 on its memorable journey, the only telescope in the world able to fulfil that role.

At that time the telescope, with an impressive 250 feet diameter dish, was the largest trackable telescope in the world. It still holds its own, 57 years later, as the third largest.

This elegant piece of engineering is completely adjustable being able to observe the sky from all directions as it's frame moves full circle on tracks and its dish tips from the horizontal to the vertical (also useful for emptying out the winter snow apparently).

Originally the radio telescope was prosaically named 'Mark 1'. In 1987, for its 30^th birthday, it was renamed the Lovell Telescope in honour of its creator, the brilliant physicist Sir Bernard Lovell. He was knighted in 1961 in recognising of his outstanding work in radio astronomy, vital in the detection of satellites during the Cold War period.

Sir Bernard, who died in 2012 at the age of 98, was invited to the Soviet Union in 1963 and later, after a mysterious illness, believed that an attempt was made to erase his memories of the trip by secretly exposing him to radiation when he refused an offer to defect.

Today, when we no longer fear reds under the bed, Jodrell Bank and its radio telescopes peacefully get on with observing the solar system, and the wonderful Lovell Telescope has been justifiably designated a Grade 1 listed building.

The House Sit in Retrospect

My last day in Cheshire. The house sit is coming to an end, so time for a report. 

Eighteen days have run by without incident. No water pipes have burst, no electrical equipment has blown up, no animals have perished. That sounds like a successful house-sitting stint in anyone's language.

Annie, my canine companion, and I have become good friends. We've walked in the mornings and evenings around this lovely area greeted sometimes by some of the four-legged neighbours.

Annie and I have not always seen eye to eye about the polite way to greet other dogs/cats. She maintains that rushing up to them with me flying along behind is quite acceptable. I've pointed out (with the help of a rolled newspaper) that it's far nicer to nod and walk on past. She's mostly conceded that this may be all for the best.

My arrival in Cheshire coincided with the arrival of ex hurricane Bertha, sent swiftly across the Atlantic from the general direction of Nova Scotia. Bertha had a considerable amount of water that she wanted to rid herself of and has proceeded to do just that off and on for the whole time I've been here. Today is bright and sunny and I'm hoping Bertha isn't planning to wring out the last of her wet washing over Norfolk where I'll be heading tomorrow.

I've had ten days out of eighteen where I've been out and about, with a coat just in case, so I can't complain about that. Often it rained overnight and cleared up during the day. Or the morning would be wet and the afternoon dry or the other way round.

A half hour in one direction lies the vast area of Greater Manchester with the old industrial city at its heart. A half hour in the other direction lies the starkly beautiful moorlands of the Pennine Range. The whole region alive with history and stunning scenery. I couldn't have asked for a better location for house sitting in Cheshire.

Tomorrow I bid farewell to Annie the dog, Fennel the invisible cat, and the five chooks who are addicted to dandelion leaves and have required me to eat more eggs than I'd normally eat in six months. I'll set the sat nav for Reedham on the River Yare in Norfolk and hope to take today's sunshine with me.

Lives Remembered

Visiting stately homes is a national obsession with the British and a must for visitors from overseas. But do we ever spare a thought for the last occupants of these remnants of a once glorious past?

While visiting Lyme Park in Cheshire last week, I sat in on a talk given by a National Trust volunteer. He told his listeners the story of the family of Lyme Park, generation after generation of the one family until the general decline of these old estates came after WWI and eventually the surrender of what had always been the family home, after WWII. A fate which befell so many of the British upper class.

When you scratch off the top layer people are mostly the same underneath, so loosing your home is a painful for a baron as it is for anyone else. That pain would be accentuated by the thought that of all those past generations who built up this vast estate, it is you who is dropping the ball.

The person 'dropped the ball' was the 3^rd Baron Newton, Richard Legh, a descendant of the Legh family who had been at Lyme Park since 1398. It was reported that he and his wife were in a state of despair as to what should be done about this no-longer-manageable estate. Gifting it to the National Trust seemed the only option and one that would preserve the family history, which was not just the story of the Legh family but also the story of the people who worked and lived at Lyme Park. A quote from a local newspaper is on display recording the leaving of Lyme Park:

“Shortly after the war when Lord Newton gave Lyme Hall and its deer park to the National Trust, the parting with old employees who gathered in groups outside the hall, along the road through the park, and at the gate to watch them motor away, had a sorrowful note.”

The National Trust have chosen to focus on the Edwardian era at Lyme Hall, a time of great social activity. Life at Lyme was much like life at Downton Abbey: dinner parties, dances, weekend shooting parties and picnics. And like Downton Abbey, the servants were well treated and became treasured employees. A charming painting done by the 2^nd Baron Newton's thirteen-year-old daughter, Phyllis Legh, records the occasion of the Servants' Ball on New Year's Eve, circa 1906*. These annual events took place in the great entrance hall and, after wishing all the servants a Happy New Year, the family would retire and the servants would dance until dawn (then set about their day's work). Apparently they thought it a small price to pay for a great knees-up.

Amateur theatricals became part of life at Lyme Hall in the early 20^th century. A stage, complete with velvet curtains, was made in the Long Gallery, the space behind being used as a dressing room, and plays were performed by family members and probably those of the guests that could be persuaded to join in.

This passion was embraced by the junior members of the family and a wonderful silent home-movie exists of a Sherlock Holmes story (written by one of the boys). It is performed, with suitable dramatic flair and musical accompaniment, by various family members, some wearing false moustaches and puffing on empty pipes. In a small room a screen and chairs are set up where visitors can take a break and watch the film while touring the house.

Lyme Hall had the honour of becoming 'Pemberley' in the BBC's 1995 production of Jane Aiusten's novel, Pride and Prejudice. Rather fitting for a home that loved to put on a good show.

*Photo from BBC 'Your Paintings'.

Messing About in Boats

When I decided to bring a bike with me to the UK in 2010, it was the canal paths that attracted me. Cycling through the countryside is delightful but cycling along a canal path is magic. There's something about water that is endlessly fascinating.

That fascination can be the only explanation for the mania for canal-boat holidays. I can cycle faster than a canal boat when I'm just ambling along. If you suggested to most people that it might be fun to drive along a road at 4 mph, they would laugh at the idea. Yet so many people are more than happy to proceed along a canal at 4 mph. Ask them to spend two minutes at a set of traffic lights and they become ropeable. But those same people will spend any amount of time going through a lock that requires them to, perhaps, wait for someone ahead to go through, then leave the boat, fill or empty the lock depending which way they're going, enter the lock, wait for it to fill or empty, open the lock gates and motor away. I repeat, the fascination with water can be the only explanation.

Yesterday I went to Marple where there is a flight of 16 locks on the Peak Forest Canal. The locks cover a mile of the canal and patience would be required to travel from top to bottom or vice versa.

The canal was built in 1790s to transport lime from the area to Manchester and beyond. The lime was also burnt for quick lime in local kilns, a process that required coal to be brought in via the canal system.

A boat towed by one big shire horse plodding along the tow path could haul ten times the weight that the same horse could haul on land, resulting in dramatically reduced transport costs. If the horse knew his job he didn't even need a man to lead him.

The Macclesfield Canal has some curious 'roving' or 'snake' bridges. These are designed to allow a horse to be taken over the bridge without unhooking the tow line when the path crosses from one side of the canal to the other.

The building of canals was privately funded by business men who would profit from a cheaper, faster, safer method of transport, the roads being rough and often impassable, to say nothing of the danger of highwaymen. Men whose goods were breakable (and valuable) like Josiah Wedgwood's benefited greatly from the new canal system. Some put up money as an investment in the future. But the future had something else in store: the railroad.

By the mid 1800s canal usage was in decline and was never to recover its commercial trade. The 1900s brought road-transport and, after WWII, the canals quickly became redundant.

When the 1960s arrived a new generation saw the leisure potential in the old canals and volunteer groups started to restore them for holiday use. The success of these projects led to the injection of government funding for major restoration works like the construction of the wonderful Falkirk Wheel boat lift in Scotland which I wrote about here. 

It's good to know that the hard work of the thousands of men who dug the canals by hand from the mid 1700s has not gone to waste.

I cycled along the upper section of the canal towards Whaley Bridge and came across a number of lift bridges. A boat travelling on the canal must stop, activate the mechanism to lift the bridge, motor through then put the bridge back where they found it. So, between delays for travelling through locks and bridges and the requirement to keep to 3 or 4 mph, one can only assume that the aforementioned fascination with water must override a person's otherwise impatient nature.

Venturing onto the Pennine Way

Kent has its White Cliffs, Cumbria has its Lakes, Derbyshire has its Peaks. And into those Peaks I ventured on a day of all seasons. The range of mountains and hills known as the Pennines, often called the backbone of England, divides the east from the west starting in Derbyshire and running north to the Scottish border. It lies within the Peak District which encompasses sections of the counties of Derbyshire, Staffordshire, Cheshire, and South and West Yorkshire. The Peak District National Park was designated in 1951 making it the Untied Kingdom's first national park.

Hiking and rambling are a national obsession in the United Kingdom and one can understand why. If you lived in London you could, if you wished, get on an early train at Euston, be in Manchester for breakfast, hop on a train to Edale and be trekking up the Pennine Way by lunchtime. In fact, public transport is the best way to tackle the Peaks. One can relax and admire the outstanding beauty of the heather-covered moorland and the interweaving folds of lush farmland, divided up into patchwork fields with hedges or stone fences, in valleys that stretch away into the distance. Driving a car in these areas is not to be recommended.

No doubt that the motor car has improved life in general, but there comes a point when you begin to wonder if we couldn't do with fewer of the beasts. Here in the United Kingdom there are more than 60 million people, add to that the millions of tourists who arrive in the warmer months, and consider the fact that the country is only about the size of Victoria (Australia). The entire population of Australia is roughly 26 million, so imagine doubling (nearly tripling if you throw in the tourists) our population, moving them all to Victoria, increasing our roads by about ten fold (at a guess) but reducing most of them to half the width, add a degree or two of difficulty by inserting a bend every 200 metres, throw in lots of hills and you will have some idea of what driving in the UK is all about.

I have driven twice over the road engagingly named the Cat and Fiddle which takes one over the Peaks from Buxton in Derbyshire to Macclesfield in Cheshire. It is reputed to be Britain's most dangerous road. The switchback which winds its way up into the breathtakingly beautiful starkness of these windswept peaks is apparently an irresistible invitation to drivers and motorcyclists with a death-wish. The more local authorities do to improve the road's safety, the faster they can travel! As far as I can tell the only danger in travelling this road is doing it at speed. The road itself is well sealed and wide enough for a bus going one way to pass a truck going the other, but taking it slowly around the frequent bends is essential.

The road has its name from the Cat and Fiddle Inn, Britain's second highest pub. The inn, built in 1830 shortly after the construction of the turnpike road, sits by the side of the road, alone and isolated, on the very top of the ridge that separates Derbyshire from Cheshire. It's a popular spot with walkers who must be glad of a pint and a sit down by the time they reach the Cat and Fiddle. Motorists seeing it up ahead know that the climb is over and the descent about to begin.

I seem to have wandered away from where this tale started, so let's get back on that train and head through the two-mile-long Cowburn Tunnel and emerge into the beautiful Edale Valley. The pretty little village of Edale marks the start of the Pennine Way, a 267 mile trail traversing the hills of the Pennines north to the Scottish border, ending a little further on in Scotland's Kirk Yetholm. The Pennine Way is the ramblers' Everest. If you haven't done the Pennine Way then you haven't really rambled. People do it from bottom to top, and from top to bottom. They do it in stages, they write books about it, the get lost on it, and sometimes they die on it.

The famed Kinder Scout, the highest point in the Peak District, is a moorland plateau owned by the National Trust and it is right there above Edale. A 7 ½ mile circular walk skirting the plateau takes one to the stark roof of the Pennines.

I can't claim to be a walker or a rambler in any shape or form. A dodgy foot, suspect knees and sixty-seven-year-old hips mean that I'm more at home on a bike. But, how can one visit the Peaks without stepping onto the Pennine Way, even for just a few miles. The day was cool for summer but not windy, and the sun showed through the clouds every now and then.

The instructions on the internet for the walk were a little short on detail, as usual. I was instructed to walk up through the village from the train station. On leaving the tiny unmanned station one cannot actually see the village so should one turn left or right? Luckily, a National Trust cafe is close by, the Trust being the owners of many areas in the Peak district. The young cafe attendants point me in the right direction and I set off uphill and eventually through the village to the Old Nags Head Pub. 

A sharp left opposite the pub set me on a rough path under trees until a fingerboard stating 'Pennine Way' directed me across a field containing a mob of very tame sheep. That fact is testament to the number of people who pass this way on a daily basis. I had so far walked about 100 yards and said good morning to at least six people.

The route across the field is well defined with large flat stones set in the ground forming a path diagonally to another foot gate. The gates are spring-loaded to make sure stock stay where they're supposed to be. 

The path takes up again through the next field but becomes a rough gravel track thereafter. As the path climbs higher and higher the views back down to the Edale valley are wonderful, the hills fold one on another and the farmhouses dotted here and there look like models. A tiny train pulls into Edale station and other walkers are small specks on the track below. The treeless hills above are purple with heather.

From this high point the trail dips down until it arrives at Upper Booth Farm, where a farmer is working a mob of sheep in the sheep yards with the help of his sheepdog.

He takes no notice of the walkers tromping through his yard and on over the River Noe to the National Trust's Lee Farm.

The path heads up again and I have my eye on the time because I must be back on the train at about 4.30. My objective is Jacob's Ladder, a set of stone steps put in place by the Nat Trust after erosion caused that part of the Pennine Way to become hazardous. The gritstone boulders used to form the steps were helicoptered onto the site. This is no short flight of steps, the shallow risers and deep treads made up of numerous stones, wind up and further up until they reach the Kinder plateau. This was a packhorse route across the moors from medieval times until the arrival of the railways.

A stream rushes along beside the path, splashing over rocks in its hurry to find the river. A quaint stone bridge crosses the stream at the bottom of the hill and just beyond is Jacob's Ladder.

 It climbs steadily uphill and then disappears around a bend. I ascended far enough to see the hikers ahead of me gain the summit. They were just small specks on the horizon.

I retraced my steps back down to the river, through the farm, up again to the hill looking down on the Edale Valley. I sat on a stile and had a cup of tea from the thermos as black clouds rolled over the hills and the purple of the heather turned grey in the mist. Confirmation that the weather here can turn in a very short space of time. The old scouting motto 'Be Prepared' should be embraced by all ramblers.

As it turned out, I would have had time to climb Jacob's Ladder and stand on the Kinder plateau but my dodgy foot was not unhappy to miss that adventure.

The Language of the Countryside

My blog about downs and wolds brought up the subject of the naming of landscape features. I've got to wondering why they stayed here in England and never made it to Australia. Goodness knows, we imported all their place names. The Australian landscape is, admittedly, different from the English landscape but not that different in the southern states.

I've gathered up quite a collection of words that are used here in England so I've decided to get to the bottom of their exact meaning, starting with those downs and wolds.

Down: a piece of high, uncultivated land or moor.

What would the equivalent piece of country be called in Australia? Scrub, perhaps. Two specific 'downs' in Australia come to mind: Barwon Downs in Victoria and the Darling Downs in Queensland.

Wold: gently rolling hill country.

Think of Ceres near Geelong and you have a perfect example of gently rolling hill country but they are the Ceres hills not the Ceres wolds.

Weald: a wooded or uncultivated area.

This would translate as 'the bush' in Australia.

Fen: a low, marshy or frequently flooded area.

That would be swampy or boggy land to an Aussie.

Broad: a network of shallow freshwater lakes traversed by slow-moving rivers.

The 'broad' in England is not a natural feature but came about by the gradual (unplanned) flooding of medieval peat diggings in parts of Norfolk and Suffolk.

To us that would just be a lake, pure and simple.

Fell: a hill or stretch of high moorland.

Victoria's High Plains come to mind.

Tor: a hill or rocky peak.

A hill is a hill in Australia.

Crag: a steep or rugged cliff or rock face.

That would be a cliff.

Clough: a steep valley or ravine.
Ravine would be understood in Australia.

Mere: a lake or a pond

If naturally occurring in Australia it would be a lake, or a billabong if your were in the outback, if man-made then it would be a dam or an ornamental lake.

Brook: a small stream.

We would call it a creek.

Stream: a small narrow river.

Once again, creek would cover it.

Dale: a valley.

We have lots of place names that use the suffix 'dale': Lilydale for example, but a valley is a valley.

Field: an area of open land, especially one planted with crops or pasture, typically bounded by hedges or fences.

That sounds like a paddock to me.

Meadow: A piece of grassland, especially one used for hay.
Still a paddock.

Wood: an area of land smaller than a forest that is covered with growing trees.

Bushland would describe the Australian version.

Moor: a track of open uncultivated upland typically covered with heather.

A scrubby plateau perhaps.

Corn: the chief cereal crop of a district (in England).

This one has puzzled me for a long time. To me corn, or maize, is that stuff that has big leaves and grows cobs, I now understand that when I read that someone is gathering his corn that it could be wheat, barley or oats.

I'm sure there are others that I've missed but that's quite a collection to be going on with.