Day 150

Monday 17 August

2.15pm I am sat next to my mum. We are each in an armchair and she is sleeping now. There is plenty of physical space between us but I feel closer to her now than at anytime in the past few years. Dementia not only drags the person you knew away but also drives a wedge of distraction into the relationship. Instead of being able to enjoy being with Mum, it has been about powers of attorney, care homes, finance, meetings with social care and local authority representatives, doctors, specialists and hospital visits.

But all of that is done now, and I look across at her peacefully sitting there and feel good. When I walked in to the room, half an hour ago, we exchanged big smiles and I was able to hug her. Despite wearing a face mask the eyes can still say alot, I like to think she knew I was her son. At the very least she knew that she knew me.

I was nervous about coming to visit; the last time was back in January or February. What would we say? How could I fill the silences or respond to her mumbles? I needn’t have worried. There is no need to fill any gaps or silences, I just need to be here.

These beautiful hands held mine when I was worried, led me away from any trouble or danger, wiped my eyes when I cried and fixed cuts and grazes when I fell over.

Mum is holding a lifelike-doll that is curled in a foetal position and was possibly, in a previous life, used for parenting classes. It even has a hospital name tag – I can make out that it says ‘La Newborn’. She is holding its hand while she drifts off to sleep, keeping it close to her. She has been singing lullabies to it, the words are inelligible but the melody is lilting, I want to drift off too. She has also been chatting to it, supporting its head with a gentle, cupped hand so they are face to face. I like to think she did the same with me when I was a baby.

Despite her eyes being closed and her clearly dozing off, I notice her heel lightly lifting to the rhythm of Ravel’s Bolero coming from the radio. She stops when the sound of the air cushion clicks into action, gate crashing a special moment. This disturbs her a little, she dustily opens her eyes, mutters something ever-so-gently, then closes her eyes and drifts off once again.

Her limp, grey hair is flat and parted on the left side. It used to be ‘done’ every week when she lived at home, lifted and curled. She doesn’t wear her false teeth anymore. Her skin is old, wrinkled and marked by age. Her limbs are tired and heavy – they struggle to fill her clothes. Her memory has gone. But, importantly, I recall again that she smiled at me and her eyes sparkled when I first came in. And each time, when she occasionally stirs and looks over to me, I smile at her and she smiles back saying enough with no words. We both know she doesn’t need to talk. She chuckled when I held her and she put her arms around me. Her face was soft when I kissed her cheek. That’s all that matters.

Now, I sit writing this, as she holds a little plastic baby close to her and sleeps peacefully in her chair. I wonder how many times she held my brother, my sister and I when we were ‘in arms’. And, many years before that, how she would almost certainly have held a toy baby when she was a child herself. The chapters of life are all there as I look at her holding that baby doll.

I know that she is slowly leaving us and this life. But I take some comfort that she seems to be doing so at a gentle pace. She is not angry, resentful, bitter or sad. She is just our beautiful, wonderful, ever-so loving Mum. This amazing woman who brought me into this world and then brought me up. She gave me my values and taught me how to treat others. And, she sang ‘I see the Moon’ to me whilst holding my hand and cupping my head so that our faces were in front of each other. And our eyes sparkled and we smiled at each other, and I didn’t even know.

When I was ready, she reassuringly pushed my boat out from the harbour to sail my own ship but always kept me in sight, just in case.

Day 149

Sunday 16 August

Today has shown me how the weather can really affect how we go about our lives.

It has been very ‘close’ today. I have never properly understood what that means but I do get it, I think. When the cloud is thick and relatively low it can feel oppressive. It gives me a sense of being in a small room with a low ceiling and little to no ventilation.

The air has been still, humid and very mild. I have used my blue asthma pump for the first time in months today. It’s been hard to grab enough dry, particle free air.

Beautiful shivelight on a summer evening.

It got me looking into other words we used to describe the weather. One East Anglian term is ‘shreep’ which traditionally describes a layer of slowly disappearing mist. Another for this region is ‘ungive’ which is when a thaw occurs on frosty mornings (not a word for the current season). Or ‘shivelight’ to describe lances of sunlight piercing through the tree canopies in woodland.

But I think my favourite, and one that is apt for the weather we are experiencing at the moment is a ‘pirr’. It’s a highland word used to describe a very light breeze. Basically referring to a wind so light, that it would be like a cat’s paw on the surface of water.

Found this strange little fella in the woods yesterday. It’s attached to the base of an old oak tree. I think it a Bloody-Brittlegill (Russula sanguinaria).

I did referee a pre-season football match today. My first game in over five months, the last one was just before lockdown. It felt great to be on the pitch again; the game was high quality and competitive between two talented U18 sides. I really hope Stan does the course before he goes to university.

Day 148

Saturday 15 August

A pretty quiet day compared to my quite extraordinary day yesterday. I spent most of it at home, as did Lisa and the kids.

I am back to refereeing football tomorrow morning. A pre-season friendly under-18 game will be the first game back since lockdown. I’ve been getting my head round the latest updates to the laws of the game. It’s going to be great to don the kit and get back on the pitch again, but my fitness is likely to be a challenge. We will certainly be having a water break during each half.

We did go for a dog walk this evening to yet another place that was completely new to me. Furze Hill woods in Mistley was utterly unknown up until this evening. Lisa had known about this ancient woodland and in particular a very old tree that carries a few tales with it.

On our way there, we drove through Lawford, where a number of police cars and officers were securing a ‘normal’ house on the main road. Last night the police had raided the house and arrested the 64-year-old man who lived there. They found a number of home-made pipe bombs, detonating a couple in controlled explosions. More will come out about this, but it is very odd to have something like this happening so locally.

When we arrived at the park, I recalled playing football there about sixteen years ago. But never remembered such a large wooded area surrounding it.

The paths lead you on but close in behind you. The woods seem to want you there and it really feels like the trees welcome visitors.

Within seconds of walking down one of the many paths into it, the woods folded behind us. It really felt like it wanted people to be there like it fed off the presence of people enjoying wandering through it. I heard other voices and dogs barking but couldn’t see them. The recent rainfall had stirred up the smells from the woodland floor which was now soft and springy underfoot. The many decades of leaf litter and vegetation had woken up as a result of the damp conditions. Many of these trees are hundreds of years old.

Old Knobbley sits there, reaching out like a wise and old grand parent. “Come sit here, Friend, I have some fantastic stories to tell you.”

Eventually we arrived at the main event. Old Knobbley is a tree right in the heart of the woods and known by everyone in the area (apart from me it would seem). The tree is estimated as being around 800 years old. It has its own website, social media presence and unofficial biographer. Folklore talks of local women, fleeing the henchmen of the self-declared Witchfinder General, Matthew Hopkins, and seeking refuge in its branches. Hopkins lived in Manningtree and is understood to have ‘tried’ and murdered dozens, maybe hundreds, of women and girls during the 1640s after declaring them witches.

How many faces can you see in Old Knobbley? Is he trying to tell us his tales out of the side of his mouth. If only.

It is a fact that this tree is something special. You approach it with awe and a sense of wonder. If only it could talk. It looks very old, sprawled, hunched and struggling to remain upright. But I guess you would if you were that old. This ancient oak was a mere sapling when the Magna Carta was first drawn up.

Day 147

Friday 14 August

“‘Tis the eye of childhood that fears the painted devil.” Lady Macbeth to her husband who chastises him for showing fear. He fears facing the scene of his own murderous crime. The irony is that she herself is afraid of the dark and of the demons that lay within. The point, of course, is that we all have our demons, our fears to face. On another level, we are also fascinated by the supernatural, and East Anglia has more than its fair share.

It’s a wonderful world we live in and we are wonderous animals. We are highly social and capable of using tools, language and arts to develop our social norms and values. The development of our neocortex, prefrontal cortex and temporal lobes mean that we have a highly developed brain that distinguishes us from our closest relatives, the apes.

Wikipedia states “Curiosity and the human desire to understand and influence the environment and to explain and manipulate phenomena (or events) have motivated humanity’s development of science, philosophy, mythology, religion, and numerous other fields of knowledge.”

The Wenhaston Doom. St Michael and Satan pass judgement on the souls of mortals to decide if they turn right to hell or left to heaven.

11am Outside the St Peter’s Church, Wenhaston. It is as a result of the above that The Doom (and its like) were created and why, having read a book inspired by it, I have driven an hour both ways to view it for myself. This surprisingly large painting directly on to oak planks, was erected above the knee so that the whole congregation could see what would happen if they chose one of two paths in life. I am not religious but I consider myself spiritual. I find that hard to reconcile as many would see the two as the same. But although I believe there is good and bad in human nature, I do not believe there is evil in the world. I don’t believe that God and Satan continually battle it out on the planet using us as pawns.

Throughout history the wealthy and educated have received favour over the common man. Royalty and the clergy gain automatic access to heaven by St Peter who ‘holds the key’.

We all have an inquisitive nature and are drawn to things that we can’t explain rationally. But we also fear the irrational or unexplained in equal measure. As in Macbeth, we sometimes create ghosts or demonic creatures as vessels for these fears. It is often easier to do this than face our real demons; trauma from our pasts in most cases.

Our past oppressors, individual tyrants or organisations, have sometimes devised fears for us. Creating a threat of eternal damnation to keep us subservient and in our place.

Still the questions hold. Why doesn’t everyone do good? Why do some people do bad things? Do they really get their comeuppance either during their life or after it? Our sense of justice likes to think they will. But it is possibly better to focus on what leads people to behave badly in the first place?

The many souls, captured by the chains of devilish imps and entering hell through the open mouth of a serpent. In Wykenhurst’s doom, the mouth of hell was depicted by an eel, a creature from the fen waters.
Entering the kingdom of heaven after judgment. Only two people here.

The Wenhaston doom shows naked figures, as judgement strips away all clothing and regalia (except for crowns and cardinals hats naturally). The puritan movement considered this indicative of all that was wrong with catholicism and in the mid 1600s had these images whitewashed or destroyed. The Wenhaston doom was only discovered after the planks of wood we’re piled up outside, only for a heavy downpoor during a thunderstorm to wash away the whitewash, revealing the images beneath. Pure luck?

12.30pm The sun is trying to come out and I am sitting on a bench overlooking the Church Common at Wehaston after a fascinating visit to the church and a wonderful conversation with the local church volunteer. We inevitably got on to the subject of birds and in particular how a number of swift boxes have been erected in the church and throughout the village. The background noise is of a Blackcap clicking like two marbles being tapped together. And, of course, the obligatory wood pigeons.

Sparrows, blackbirds, tits all chatter away and check tree bark and floor for invertebrates.

So, a relatively short trip to quite an amazing place pretty much on my doorstep. Full of atmosphere, history and such thought provoking spaces.

Later… So, I was just leaving Wenhaston village and drove past The Star Inn. Turned around, drove in and now sat in the garden, sun on my back, local beer and sausage roll for lunch. Reading my book. Unplanned. What a lucky man.

A pint of The Green Man Ale and a read in the sun at The Star Inn, Wenhaston.

Day 146

Thursday 13 August

There is a real anger bubbling inside our household today just as the thunder clouds bubble up outside. The heat and humidity are pouring fuel on to both.

The A-level results have come out today for England, Northern Ireland and Wales. Scottish students received theirs last week. The anger building stems from the fact that nearly 40% of teacher assessments were down-graded particularly based mainly on the premise of the school or colleges previous grades. So, where you are from, and therefore what local sixth-form provision you attend, your grades will have been ‘adjusted’ accordingly. Students abilities are not being fairly represented, social demographics are instead impacting on your achievements.

This just underlines the governments approach to a) a sustained lack of promoting social mobility and b) it’s belief in the teachers’ professional knowledge of their students and their subject. It stinks. To add further resentment and anger, the percentage of highest grades has gone up at private schools to the detriment of the state sector. There is no better proof of a tiered system of maintaining a large sub-class of young people (who will become working adults, and eventually become pensioners) who right from the start have a battle on their hands to get ahead. The odds are stacked against them from the start.

I hope people, particularly young people, become angry over this. We have said to our two kids today, work harder than ever before, get the qualifications you deserve, obtain positions of influence and change the system which is so obviously unfair and elitist. It’s clear that if you can afford it, you can buy yourself up the ladder. Adora gets her GCSE results a week today and Stan sits his A-Level exams next summer.

Earlier in the week I found a Goldfinch feather on the lawn. It is small, around 6cm long, and is sheer perfection. It is at the top, alongside the Kestrel feather, as a favourite in my collection. The clean lines and that flash of yellow contrasting with the black and white make it quite striking.

The Goldfinch (Carduelis carduelis) is a real find. Such a small feather and on our own back lawn. Wow.

The sun lantern in our family room downstairs is becoming a frustrating trap for insects galore at the moment. The doors and windows are wide open all day due to the hot weather and all manner of winged beasts fly in and try to leave through the glass panes. Sadly, whilst clearing off the insect debris of flies from the ledge that sits under it I found this incredible female Southern Hawker dragonfly.

The left rear wing of a female Southern Hawker dragonfly (Aeshna cyanea) which gate-crashed our house today. Sadly it could not find its way out again.
An opportunity to see a dragonfly this close up is rare. Although Southern Hawkers are quite inquisitive and will approach us rather than fly off.

Day 145

Wednesday 12 August

It has been officially announced that the country is in recession as a result of two quarters of negative GDP. It’s no surprise of course, but still pretty sobering. There is certainly worse to come.

I am reading a superb novel at the moment. ‘Wykenhurst’ is set in 1912, in west Suffolk and is a gothic mystery with a hearty dash of supernatural scare and a murder tale chucked in. One of the main features of the novel is The Doom; a painting from the 1500s depicting the last judgment of souls when they die. Jesus and Satan are depicted ‘welcoming’ spirits as they’re earthly lives are weighed against good and bad. This painting is found in a church yard wood pile, after rain had washed away the lime whitewash painted on by puritans in the 1600s.

The weather is starting to show signs of breaking up. These anvil-shaped vlouds, seen on out walk late yesterday evening have been bubbling up. No thunder or lightning yet, though they may come later this week.

It’s a gripping read and the author clearly has a passion for the East Anglia and specifically the fans. Their is a deep appreciation of it’s rich history and reliance on folklore. It turns out that she based the idea of The Doom on a real version (with an almost identical back story) that resides in a tiny church in a village in mid-Suffolk. I have contacted the warden and am hopefully going to see it on Friday.

Meanwhile, the relentless heat continues, 33° today. Lisa has made supper and we are going to the beach hut at Frinton later today. Around 5pm, people will start leaving just as we will arrive. Then a cooling dip in the sea, supper and card games as the sun sinks and the camping lights come on.

Playing cards as the sun sinks.

Later…The other day I wrote about how wonderful the beach is and how we all seem to be drawn to it. All types, all kinds. Just sat on the step next to the beach but we have talked to a lady from India, living in Walton, going for a tequila shot session with her friend from London. Then a Hassidic Jewish family walk by and we exchange hello’s and ‘have you had a good time?’ conversations. Plus many others beside. The family in the beach hut next to us were lively friendly bunch who’s dog ram and played with Mabel off the lead. I could walk down the high street in Colchester, past many dozens of people, and share a word.

Mabel admires the view from the beach but.

Day 144

Tuesday 11 August

8.20am Started the day with a little unexpected excitement with barking from Mabel downstairs. She was barking at the TV which wasn’t on. After flashes of recalling various scenes from the film ‘Poltergeist’, I discovered that rather than Carrie-Ann stuck in it, there was a blue tit stuck behind it.

After a slowmotion, Benny Hill style, track and trace around the room it eventually made its way out of the front window safely. I now need to sweep up all of the dead insects that it’s flapping dislodged from the ledges of the sky lantern.

9.40am I am sat in the armchair, next to the window in the family room. I can hear the chickens at number one and the cack-cack-cacking of a Magpie somewhere. I can see a steady stream of Great Tits, Blue Tits and House Sparrows at the feeders. Right outside the window, bees and other insects are feasting on the nectar from the flowers on the patio. The sun is having a lay-in this morning, as occasional sprinkles of rain drops scatter dark spots on the patio and parched soil. The cloud cover is too bright to look at and will give way to the sun in the next hour or so.

A Collared Dove dabs away at the ground below the feeders picking up what has fallen from the frenzied feeding above; it seems out of place somehow. How can a bird so smartly presented not have a place at the top table? It probably doesn’t like to socialise with the rabble above. Instead, let the plebs do the hard graft and I will feast on what you pluck for me. A startle from somewhere and it lifts it’s large fuselage off the ground with an odd tweeting-whistle with each flap. All doves and pigeons seem to make that sound when they fly off, I guess it’s the wing beats through the air? Something else to look into.

Well, it turns out that there are a set of particular flight feathers along the doves’s wing that is unique to the families Columba and Streptopelia (pigeons and doves). These feathers agitate the air to make the whistling sounds. Now the amazing thing is, the wilder the wing beat, the higher the pitch. This acts as a warning to other birds that a risk is present. The more hasty the flight, the louder and higher the pitch, the greater the potential danger.

4pm We’ve been to see Dad this afternoon. At nearly ninety years of age he is still loading up his Ford Fiesta with two model planes ready to go flying with his friends.

Sunflowers, a good read and a refreshing cup of tea. All of a sudden, I hear Summertime by The Sunday’s in my head.

The morning cloud cover has burnt away and we have blistering bright sunshine again, 31°. Lisa and I are sat outside in the back garden, crispy under foot, drinking a cup of tea and reading. It’s too hot to do much else.

The magpie is in the tree at the end of the garden trying to make a racket; but even he is struggling to muster up enough energy and instead makes a half-hearted clackle. Even the breeze, limply lifting the trailing branches of the silver birch is finding it too hot to try much harder.

Everything needs a drink in this weather.

I’m looking forward to a curry and a beer and then a late (very late) evening walk with Mabel and the family. Just locally. It’s been a couple of weeks now and things will have changed in the fields around us, it’s harvest time.

Day 143

Monday 10 August

There have been a few topics for my blog that I had been saving up for when the weather turned too stormy or wet, preventing me from venturing outside for a walk. I had no idea that I would kept inside because the weather was too hot and sunny! It has really heated up throughout most of the UK over the past few days; it’s 2pm here and a roasting 31° outside with very little breeze.

Some feathers are relatively easy to identify, others are a lot more tricky. The primaries of the collared dove and wood pigeon for example.

The garden is suffering with the broad-leafed shrubs wilting and the grass crispy brown across 80% of the lawn. Still, the insects are loving it. But the birds are missing, and I am missing them.

So, in their absence I have been putting together a book of feathers that I have collected over the past few months. All have been picked up on walks or passed to me from neighbours and friends. Some of these feathers have featured in previous posts.

For some species I have gathered a range of feather types for the same bird. Need to stick them in and label them.

Again, writing this blog is really enjoyable because it is leading me to explore, in way more depth, the detail of what I find around me. Before lockdown and Coronavirus, I may have been interested in picking up a feather and having a closer look – briefly. But it would almost certainly have been dropped a little further along the walk. It is unlikely that I would follow up on this back at home – a lack of time would prevent it.

Now, I will hold a couple of feathers and take time to notice how different they look and feel. Some are long and rigid, others are short and wide and soft. Some are dark, speckled, striped, spotted, plain white, or just plain. I am trying to learn the specialist language of feathers and revelling in the fact that I can spot a feather on the ground where I walk and know exactly what bird it is from. I then look around me wondering where they might have perched to pluck away.

Some feathers still need to be catalogued but I am waiting for a rainy day to get it done.

And take time to wonder why they might have been doing this? Preening? Grooming? Or maybe they weren’t plucking at all and it is as a result of a predation? I am grateful for that gift of time during lockdown and, now that lockdown is over, I purposefully make time to keep learning about what’s around me.

Day 142

Sunday 09 August

A quieter day today as we returned home after our eight nights away in Norfolk. The usual post-holiday chores on our return; washing clothes, putting cases back in the loft.

We spent some time in the garden this afternoon and evening. I had a go at the grape vine which has spread its tendrils and off-shoots while we’ve been away. Lisa has been dead-heading the flowers and caring for the plants in the greenhouse and patio. Stan has been celebrating the size of the courgettes that have gone bonkers over the last week.

Lisa has taught me how to play Backgammon this holiday. Simple pleasures.

The day started in the misty coolness of Wells-next-the-Sea and ended with the balmy heat of Ardleigh. We played backgammon outside with a cool glass of wine underneath the lights and the vine.

We are very lucky to live on an island so rich in variety and with so many opportunities for simple distractions. In just a couple of hours we were back home and although we have loved being away, it is great to be back.

A realisation that has hit me this past week though, has been how important walking has become to me. If I have a few days not stretching my legs and seeing the world around me, I start to become irritable and insular. It doesn’t have to be on the scale of our coastal walks like yesterday but does need to provide me the chance to see wonderful things and breath deep gulps of fresh air. Fortunatley, I can get that all year round by stepping outside my own front door.

Finally, I was really interested by a new initiative been set up called Earthwatch Naturehood which focusses on people actively protecting the natural world around where they live. No matter how big or small. I have signed up and will see what its all about over the coming days and weeks.

Day 141

Saturday 08 August

The Gents Film & Leisure Club went on another walk today. Fourth leg of the Norfolk Coastal Path; a rather humble 8.5 miles from Cley-next-the-Sea to Sheringham.

The weather had changed from baking hot yesterday to pleasant but a little windy today. A gusty northerly was now blowing onto the beach from the sea and cooling the coastline. This was particularly welcome as a significant amount of the ‘path’ was actually on the shingle beach, testing our calves and ankles.

The onward view from Cley beach heading east towards Sheringham. Shingle means noisy crunching footsteps. Which makes for a noisy walk, but our blokish
chatter and laughter didn’t suffer.

This stretch of the walk had a number of particular interests. Firstly, it passes a large expanse of protected shingle and salt marsh that supports an abundance of wildlife. Ground nesting birds such as Oystercatchers and Common Terns, Redshank and Ringed Plover. The beach and shoreline provide rich, fishy pickings for seabirds.

‘Fish heads on the shoreline’ sounds like a new album by an indie band. Gulls and terns carry their catch to feed in a congregational group. There were a number of young with them that were also being fed. This grouped behaviour is not uncommon amongst some species when young have fledged.

There is also a significant range of flowers and other plants along the shingle and further inland amongst the marshes. In a previous post I mentioned the scarce Yellow Horned Poppy but its relative abundance along this stretch. It was still nodding its heads approvingly this morning as we wandered by, a little more exaggerated today though as the wind blew through. I am growing to really appreciate the wildflowers around our countryside and coast. We still have an amazing variety despite our seeming disregard for their habitats that we casually destroy when we build or clear space. I pictured walking along this, and other places, with the ever present plants and wildflowers missing. What a horrible thought?

Common Toadflax (Linaria Bulgaria) flower spikes have flopped under the weight of the flowers and possibly to shelter from the strong winds.

The coastline along this stretch changes from shingle to sand and back again, sometimes even combining to totally confuse our legs. The headland also occasionally undulates, providing a rare opportunity to walk up and down a slope. Sadly though, this headland is being eroded by the sea and the harsh weather. The sea licks, nibbles and chews away at the golden cliff faces; sometimes taking whole mouthfuls in one go. The uneaten remains laying in spoil heaps on the shore. It’s appetite is seemingly relentless and houses, once a good walk from the cliff edge, now have garden gates opening up to a shear drop to the beach below.

Where the land meets the all consuming sea.

Of particular interest to us along this walk were the visible human influences. Not only the fishing boats and machinery but more so the evidence of military defences particularly around the Weybourne area. This whole stretch was one of the most defended parts of coastal Britain during WW1 and WW2. Infact, the threat of attack along the Norfolk coastline dates back to Roman times.

An Alan Williams Turret (at the start of our walk near Cley) would usually have a Lewis gun mounted in the top to target aircraft and a front facing rifleman to guard against infantry. The upper half could rotate a full 360°. But, along with many innovative designs, it would pose little to no threat to invading force.

It was used to facilitate radio and radar communications and provide physical lookouts and early warning of invading forces. During the second world war, there was considered a significant threat of a land and air invasion. The wide and gently sloping beaches would have provided ideal conditions for sea and aerial landings.

A classic hexagonal pill box slipping evermore seaward. The staircased loopholes were designed to prevent enemy bullets entering the stronghold.

So, many pillboxes and lookouts are peppered along the beaches and just inland. Lumps of concrete ‘float’ semi-submerged in the shingle and sand like stony icebergs as reminders of just how fortified this coastline was. Alongside this is a length of anti-landing craft barrier; thick steel girders protruding from the ground.

Weather-worn steel girders still in active service, solidly standing to attention…just in case.

There is also a restored radio mast and lookout flanked by a trio of anti-aircaft guns. A nearby museum of military land vehicles proved a diversion for us before we drove home. The vast collection of tanks, armoured vehicles, big guns and missiles struggles to keep the story alive as it competes for the pennies and pounds of so many other distractions for the holiday maker and visitor to the area. I came out visually exhausted by the amount of metal and destructive fire power I had seen.

The wireless and radar station at Weybourne Hope with three restored anti-aircraft guns (one not visible).

We eventuallly strolled in to Sheringham, and had a congratulatory pint and bowl of chips before heading home. I was weary, not from walking but from the walk.