Two weeks in Albion

As soon as I see the proverbial white cliffs slowly disappear, homesickness for England sets in. This is not getting any better when I reach the mainland, the industrial wasteland which lies at the other side of the Channel, the docks at Dunkerque. Nothing here reminds anyone of the heroic acts of the second World War. We cross railway tracks on which I have never seen a train, go round roundabouts which seem to lead nowhere, see barriers and containers in an utterly flat landscape.  The route to the Netherlands is not much better. Especially in France there are no landmarks to be seen from the motorway. Between Antwerp and Breda we now drive along a never ending grey concrete wall, hiding the fast train from car drivers, as well as any interesting church spires, wooded areas or anything which gives one an idea where one is. It is like driving through a nightmare, in which I seem to make no progress and expect to drive on forever without reaching my destination.

I have been in England these past two weeks, unfortunately with sporadic access to internet and hardly ever a cell phone signal strong enough to do much at all. So no blogging. The main aim was to sing Evensong for a week in Ely Cathedral. But before doing that I visited some friends in Norfolk. So here is an account of the various stages of my holiday.

NORFOLK

My B&B in Norfolk, hidden in a very quiet village, is wonderful. I have my own little bungalow, with everything one could need or wish for, and more. Norfolk is unspoilt by tourism, at least away from the coastal villages and towns. I love its rolling landscape with the winding country lanes, very narrow in places, dipping down unexpectedly into hollows, going through spinney's and old woodland, emerging again on top of a hill with wide views of the countryside. You could easily get lost among those country lanes. There are many small villages, road signs pointing in all directions, but they seem to be hidden by the hedges bordering the roads. Those hedges harbour a lot of wildlife: badgers, porcupines, small mammals, voles; birds nest there. It is a paradise for butterflies as well. Higher up there are birds of prey, owls, many songbirds, tits, finches, gold finches, greenfinches, bullfinches, all the ones hardly found any more in the urban area in Holland where I live.It is the end of July and harvest time. The corn is ripe, although of poor quality because of the drought. The yellow a happy contrast with the bright red poppies lacing the fields. Many fields are being ploughed, showing a wonderful crumbly texture of rose coloured soil, a treasure trove for birds.

In the evening light, the stones of a church on a hill change into pure gold. The sunsets are fascinating, and I feel I am driving through fairyland. The roads wind around churches which seem to be built in the middle of nowhere. They used to be open during the daytime, but unfortunately many are now closed because of theft. But contrary to the Netherlands where the churches are almost always closed, at least here there is a notice on most doors telling interested visitors where they can obtain a key to the church. Some of the smaller churches are very interesting and in many cases their history goes back towards the 14^th century. Especially in Norfolk, I find the churches fascinating. Some have round spires, many are built of flint, and some have the most wonderful roofs, hammer beam roofs, the ends decorated with wooden angels. The Norfolk Churches site is fantastic. It also lists all the round tower churches in Norfolk separately. The church in Swaffham has a most interesting history, and a splendid double hammer beam roof with angels. One of our former curates, a friend, is now the rector of Langham and seven other parish churches. He lives in the most gorgeous flint stone rectory, his study looking out towards the church next door, the most wonderful view I can imagine.

The number of big estates in Norfolk is amazing. I only notice them because of the long and often crumbling brick walls along the road, the boundaries of the properties, vast stretches of land; and the grand entrance gates, ornate cast iron ones, most decorative, supported by strong brick pillars, heroic lions on top, showing the moss covered coat of arms of their owners. The boarded up gatehouses, guarding the roads with blinded eyes, are witness to their decline. But I also see that walls are being repaired and rebuilt in places. The houses, if still intact, are hidden deep within the estates not visible from the road, tucked away somewhere, where we, a different species almost, can’t see them.

The land is surprising, rather empty of people, every village with its own big church, sometimes built of flint and pebbles. There is an abundance of flowers, often in pots flanking the front doors of the houses, and in hanging baskets, brimming over with colour. Fluffy, contented chickens cross the roads, chuckling, pecking around them trying to find some delicacy. I try not to hit the pheasants and the partridges with their chicks, already grown to almost their parents’ size. There seems to be a slower pace of life, but it may be an illusion. Cars all of a sudden seem to loom behind me, impatient to pass me on roads where that is well nigh impossible. Farmhouses have been tastily changed into luxury homes, barns into cottages rented out to tourists, outbuildings converted into B&B's, just as the annexe I stay in, a former stable in the grounds of a farmhouse. The grounds are still extensive, and my hostess has converted the fields into different garden rooms, with seats and garden furniture hidden in secluded places. There is a big wild flower meadow, there are chickens, there is a kitchen garden, an old water well, in short, it is a place full of surprises and hidden gems, a place with secret gardens. I love it immediately, even if it is difficult to find it in the dusk, when I come back from my friends' place in a village a 20-minute drive away. It is a inspiring drive along the lanes, the land so quiet and peaceful. I only see pheasants, rabbits, birds. The sky turning orange and bright red when the sun sets. It seems to me this is how life should be lived, peacefully drifting into the evening, the darkness of the night.

Although a lot of farming is still going on, here too life changes. But there are no ugly new estates. Old buildings are not demolished but renovated and put to another use. In the evening a friend hands me the special housing supplement of the weekend paper. It is full of the most elegant and enviable properties, old farmhouses tastefully converted, barns, Georgian mansions, all with a lot of land. The prices are staggering. How can there be so many rich people in a country in which taxes are as high as in Holland? Orchards, ornamental gardens, barns and outhouses, they all come in a package with a big house.

One of the places I visit with my friend is Pensthorpe Nature Reserve, a wonderful place where the Jordan family, the cereal makers, have turned former gravel pits into a bird sanctuary and where they promote ecologically sound farming methods. That includes planting hedges and giving 10% of each arable field to nature by surrounding it with wild flowers and shrubs. As the weather is rather cold, wet and windy, we opt for a guided tour with a "train", towed by a Landrover, and without any springs whatsoever. It goes around the periphery of the reserve, and we see many interesting things, especially as our guide talks non-stop and is a rich source of information. Besides he has an eagle eye and points out birds, nests and plants to us we would never have noticed otherwise. A few years ago I walked around the bird sanctuary, but it is too much effort for my friend now, so we enjoy lunch in the restaurant which serves lovely fresh and healthy food, and then go back, my friend for her afternoon rest, I to visit Holt, a very interesting and lively town. It is busier than usual, this being holiday time and not exactly the right weather for a day on the beach. Most houses here are of flint. I wonder how cold they will be in winter. It is an upper class town, with art galleries, antique shops, nice cafe's and restaurants and a very classy department store which offers a wide selection of desirable things. I love their kitchen department, with gimmicks and colourful spoons and ladles and sharp quality knives. Their food department is as good as Harrods', although smaller. The church is surrounded by an attractive, wooded churchyard. The interior is not remarkable, merely pleasant, the coloured glass in the windows Victorian.

My last Sunday in Norfolk my friend and I attend a service in a tiny country church in a hamlet north of East Dereham. We have to remove the cobwebs before we can sit in our designated pews. The sun slants through the windows. An organist tries to get as much sound as possible out of a keyboard placed in front of a small disused organ, the pipes slightly leaning towards each other. After the service and the obligatory weak cups of instant coffee granules at the back of the church, we drive to Great Massingham, a lovely village with three big ponds in the wide common, and, contrary to the Norfolk Churches Website, a lovely pub, the Dabbling Duck, where we have our Sunday lunch in rooms lined with books, before we part our ways and I set off for Ely, to begin my week of singing.