Monday 12th August 2024

No one goes to Norfolk by accident. I means its not on the way to anywhere else, so those who come, we must assume, want to go there either to visit of live. And in Kings Lynn, out in the bandit country of west Norfolk, you really only come here because you're going to Kings Lynn, or gong on to Hunstanton or trying to escape via the A17.

I was posted to RAF Marham at the beginning of the 90s for two years, though before getting married we used to go to The Globe and other such delights, the finer points of its trading past were somewhat lost on me.

So, a long held plan was to revisit, so when Jools suggested I go away for a few days, King's Lynn was the answer.

The answer to the question nobody asked.

I found a cheap place to stay, paid, and so come Tuesday morning, after coffee and packing, Jools dropped me off at Dover Priory, where I found that they only sell "anytime" returns at that hour, and the £88 return I saw online the night before was going to be that amount for just the single to get me there.

Sigh.

I paid, and hoped I could get something cheap on the way back on Wednesday, though I was seeing how I could use this to factor in a stop off in Ely on the way back.

I took a seat once the train pulled in, and a working couple, colleagues at Saga, sat opposite, and she began talking about how undervalued she was there, and how people were not promoted on merit, and then they left, the company had to pay double to get someone to take over those tasks.

Such a familiar story.

Anyway, the train wasn't full, so all very pleasant, and just a walk over the road to King's Cross, so time to go to M&S for something for breakfast, then ambled over only to find I had just 90 seconds to gallop over the platform 9 to get the train, which was three quarters full.

The young lady in the seat in front took an hour to re-apply her make up using the phone camera as a mirror. I don't know, but it that normal amount of time to achieve the "natural" look?

I don't know.

I ate my fruit and pastrami sandwich to follow, eating as the countryside rolled by, happy in my air-conditioned chariot.

Through Cambridge, where most passengers got off, and off into the fens beyond and north, where once upon a time this was endless mires, marshes and stagnant pools, where the Isle of Ely, once an actual island, is visible for ten miles before arriving,

Tomorrow, I thought, I'll explore the Isle of Eels once again.

The train eased out and after the junction with lines leading north west and east, we headed north to Downham Market and King's Lynn beyond.

A family got on at one of the small intermediate stations, two older parents to a hyper ten year old boy who wanted everything, but out here in the wild west, there was no signal, phones could not be pared, so there was just looking out the window at the flat line of the horizon and the drainage sewers and sluices.

We arrived in King's Lynn just before eleven, and the heat hit like it did when I worked in Vegas. I walked out of the station, over the main road, the family following me as the father tried to cope with two suitcases, their son and a cowardly small dog, stopping every ten yards to collect everything that had been dropped.

They had to get to the bus station to go on to Hunstanton or some other glittering resort dotted with casinos and pleasure beaches.

Their bus was in, waiting.

I walked on.

I walked through a shopping centre exotically called "The Vancouver Centre". I couldn't see nothing in common, but who knows?

I walked through and along the main street to a junction, where I felt I should sit down and have a swig of the remaining pop I had. I was outside the King's Lynn branch of Wimpy.

Wimpy, a British fast food chain based on at table slow food, named after a character in Popeye, so of course King's Lynn had a huge branch.

There were signs to the historical quarter, so after a while I set off, heading for the Purfleet Sluice and the Customs House.

Did I mention it was hot?

I got shots, then walked on to the quayside, where candy-coloured buoys were lined up for their next duty, and behind the quay, a warren of cobbled lanes with brick houses and courtyards and warehouses, showing how prosperous the town clearly once was.

A lady saw me taking shots and made sure I came to her private yard to see the large, church-like tower built to keep an eye on incoming ships.

It was getting hotter.

I walked down the quay, then into Saturday Market Place where there is a market on Saturdays. One side is lines with the Guildhall and the other the Minster church.

I took shots of the Guildhall, and it being half midday, went in search of food and drink, and came upon Wenns Chop and Ale House, where I asked if they had cold bears (beers). They did.

I ordered a pint of Coke and burger and fries.

The place was quiet, but efficient, with enough staff to fill glasses and bring sauces.

I eat up but order another half pint of coke to build fluids up, then after paying walk over to the Minster to take shots, before an organ recital meant children and photographers made their escape. Not that I don't like organ music, church organ music, but this had a shrillness to it, that wasn't altogether pleasant.

It was then I received the call.

The room where I was booked into, had a flooded toilet and so I would not be able use it, so there was nowhere to stay. Something was mentioned about a refund, but I was in town, there was a music festival on and almost no rooms.

I tried a hotel portal, got a room for eighty quid, like I had a choice, then repaired to a pub for some more cold beer.

I watched the Hundred cricket as I drank, and people watched a family as they tried to claim control over their finances after falling out with a son who had messed up their mail be redirecting it, or something.

So calls were made between pints, games of pool and going outside for a gasper.

I drank on, and the cricket carried on.

I had three pints of ice cold German beer. It was wet and cold, which is all that mattered as the hottest part of the day blazed down outside.

It was five, so I had better find my room for the night. Now, here's the thing with these hotel portals: you don't know if its an hotel or just a room in a house.

This was a room in a house.

And it was a 15 minute walk, but in temperatures of 33 degrees back round to the station and then on a bit, and I had to check the address twice as I walked past it three times.

I had been texted a code to get in, and a code for my room on the top floor.

So far so good.

The room as in a converted attic, a foot from hundreds of tiles that had been baking all day in the sun. It was like an oven.

I should have gone to the station and went home, but using the desk fan, I cooled down, though any time away from the bed and the fan meant I was sweating like a waterfall in a couple of minutes.

I hoped it would cool down. I had a shower in the bathroom one floor down, went back up and was as hot and sweaty as before in ten minutes.

There was water to drink, and I wasn't hungry, so I whiled away the evening until dusk, when I collapsed on the bed and facing into the full force of the fan, fell asleep.