Two broads in Norfolk

I was invited to a wedding in Norfolk.  I had never been to Norfolk.  In fact, even though I have visited many foreign countries, I don't know my homeland nearly well enough. The wedding was held in a lovely country hotel and so we thought we might as well get to know the area a bit. 

The journey

Heathrow Airport, Friday afternoon. 

My friend, Miss Maggie of maggiesmagicpantry.blogspot.com took the bus from her home to Heathrow and arrived at around the same time as my plane.  We had a short wait for the shuttle bus to the Sheraton Skyline where we were to pick up the rental car.  After signing away all my rights to everything ever and agreeing that I would take full responsibility for Armageddon and the like and would compensate the car rental company for any associated losses, we took possession of a silver Ford Focus Automatic.  Not the M25, please not the M25.  But the M25 it was.  Needless to say we missed our exit to or from the M25 and we had to take a detour back round the freight terminal of LHR.  Once on the M25, you know that you are there forever.  And so it was.  And it rained.  And rained. And there was no need for the automatic transmission because we did not go fast enough to get out of first gear.  For about 3 hours.  Once we were off the motorway, the journey was much more fun and we passed through some pretty English villages, but thoughts of dinner waiting stopped us from taking photos.  About 5 hours after leaving Heathrow, we arrived at the hotel.

Saturday morning tour of the village 

The beautician at the Heacham Manor Spa managed to deal with the eyebrow emergency and I considered myself fit to appear at the wedding. After a delicious Heacham Manor breakfast, we went off to inspect the village.  First priority when at the coast is always to get that glimpse of the horizon that frees my mind.  A wifie in a high visibility jacket approached as we neared the car park to ask if we were there for the beach clean up.  She clearly had not noticed the new hair cut, the little diamond earrings and the beautifully sculpted eyebrows.  

This was my first view of the Norfolk coast which I had only ever studied on OS maps in geography lessons.  The huts at Heacham are not quite as twee as the ones I saw on my South coast trip last year, but they surely give a lot of pleasure to their owners.

Get me to the Church on time 

We arrived back at the hotel just in time to get into our finery and make our way to the Church.  It had been raining a bit, so we decided to take the car.  There was no chance of anyone getting lost between the hotel and the church thanks to the great signposting.  We arrived at the church at the same time as the vicar pulled up in his muddy Land Rover.  He looked rather scruffy, and I hoped that he had a nice vestment to wear.  As it was, and unlike in the Roman Catholic church, he had decided not to outdo the bride and therefore wore a simple white surplice over a black cassock.  The wedding reception was wonderful in every way and we enjoyed meeting interesting people in great surroundings sustained by enormous amounts of great food and drink and cake.  Wonderful Norfolk hospitality.  

Inspecting the AONB Norfolk Coast 

Our Norfolk based table friends had given us lots of tips for places to visit on Sunday.  Our plan was to drive to Cromer stopping off here and there along the way.

A crab sandwich and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc  

It was only 10.30 and half an hour since breakfast, but it still took all the willpower we could muster not to have a little snack at this crab shack.  The final convincing argument was that the crab shack does not offer SB and we were sure we’d find that essential combination a little bit further along the coast.  Sure enough, a little later, in Wells, we found just the place.

Getting the spiders out of your brain  

Norfolk has huge skies.  It is flat, so when the wind blows, it goes right through your ears and whizzes around inside your head blowing out dust and spiders that have been there forever.

We pootled along the coast stopping wherever it took our fancy and enjoying the prettiness of it all.  You could have a great week’s holiday spending a day in each of the little towns villages and beaches we stopped at.

Turnaround at Cromer to go back 

The crab and wine box ticked we made our way to Cromer.  A cup of coffee was in order.  After all, we had been on the road all day.  I felt strangely drawn to a sky blue hut.   was sceptical and insisted on going inside to check the coffee machine before she would let me out of the car.  There must have been a large chrome steamy monster of a machine, because Miss Maggie soon returned and we raced to see which one of us could feed the pay and display first.  As we waited for our coffee, Miss Maggie muttered something about cake.  Lemon cake.  Now, normally I would have lemon cake with tea, but the coffee was ordered.  We agreed to share a piece of lemon cake.  It was buttery and lemony and tangy and delicious.  The other guests were priceless caricatures of English seaside residents and day trippers.  Two old crones sat side by side, facing outwards and commenting life the universe and everything.   One of them was wearing a checked woollen headscarf.  No photos: neither of us could quite manage to take photographs of random people.  And I don’t take selfies when I am wearing a headscarf.

We still had a bit of time, and so we could return to Heacham via the coast road and see how it all looked in the evening light and from the other side.  How lucky we were to happen upon this bluebell wood.

Final sunset in Heacham 

We arrived back at Heacham Manor just in time for a last Norfolk sunset and spent the evening in the hotel lounge.  It was eerily quiet after all the activity of the previous days.  If you have not been to Norfolk, go. It really is a special place.

shepherd's pie approved for cabin baggage

Last weekend, I took a short trip to icecreammecca to catch up with friends and family.  Wur crew (our pet name for the classy team that are Ryanair cabin personnel) were late for once and it was after midnight when I arrived at my house.  Saturday there was lunch with aunties and cousins and sisters at Mrs. Formans.  I remembered a red flock wallpapered pub where my grandad would take a glass or so with his cronies.  How it has changed.

On Sunday, I hoped to surprise my friend wifiewhogoesforlunch for her birthday.  She had decided to go for a jaunt, but her sneaky brother, arbiteroftaste picked me up in his cool car and chased through the Scottish countryside to catch up with them.  We had a nice walk at Bracklinn Falls and then we went back to their house. Her husband, blokewhogoesfishing cooked us a lovely Sunday dinner.  That's where the shepherd's pie comes in.  I had bought one of Tesco's finest to have for dinner on Sunday.  What to do with the shepherd's pie?

Sunday evening was spent studying the various sites and advice about what one may take in cabin baggage.  Yoghurt, 100 mls only in your clear plastic bag with your toothpaste and haemorrhoid cream.  Jam, same.  Salsa, no. Peanut butter, no.  Salad dressing, no.  But not a word about shepherd's pie.  Gravy is expressly forbidden.  I wondered how much gravy is in finest shepherd's pie. I decided to risk it.  

On Monday, I had Lunch with horseysis, highheelsis and legallyniece in Bar Sygn and then it was off to the airport. I prepared myself for the shepherd's pie security screening.  After an airport coffee with wifiewhogoesforlunch, I made my way airside.  I travel without belts and jewellery and all the other stuff that slows things down at security, so I am normally through fairly fast.  I was looking forward to providing some entertainment for the other travellers with my shepherd's pie.  I imagined their puzzled faces at the sight of a shepherd's pie in the confiscated items bin.  I saw their pitying smiles as I explained the lack of internet guidance on mince and mashed potato dishes.  I visualised them at their destinations telling how somewifie tried to take shepherd's pie on a plane.

It was my turn.  I unzipped my shiny new purple suitcase and took out my laptop.  The shepherd's pie was safe in the other compartment with the bacon and cheese.  I stepped through the archway.  No beep.  We had almost made it, my shepherd's pie and me.  Then my bright purple case was moved from the conveyor belt to the table where they put items for hand searching.  I was all set to lose my shepherd's pie.  I waited as non English speakers were divested of their shaving foam and shampoo.  

The lady with the latex gloves turned to her colleague.  "What's in this one?" she asked, indicating the lovely shiny purple case.  He shrugged.  "Is this yours?" she asked in an almost threatening tone.  I nodded.  My mind was scanning the empty fridge in porkandcabbageland looking for an alternative dinner.  "I am just going to test the outside" she said.  She took a cotton wool swab and wiped over the shiny purple polycarbonate.  She put the cotton wool swab in a device which confirmed the non-explosive nature of the polycarbonate.  My shepherd's pie had passed the test.

Grumpygermanman

One of the things I like to take a holiday from is speaking German. On this trip, I had the transfer to the hotel with a German couple.  We spoke German at the airport and on the journey to the hotel.  They asked where I came from.  When I told them, he said "Bad place. Bad weather. Narrow roads"  I did not see them for days after that and so I could enjoy my holiday eavesdropping German conversations without anyone knowing that I am understanding what they are saying.  


Not that they were saying anything interesting.  I was treated to a detailed description of a forthcoming home cinema installation; a rant about how children should not be allowed to go on holiday; a conspiracy to persuade (left behind) children to become vegetarian; a recommendation for christian religious music in the Malayalan language.  You have to eavesdrop a lot of conversations to harvest anything more interesting than cheese purchases. 


Towards the end of my stay I bumped into grumpygermanman again.  "We shall be leaving together" he informed me in a tone that inferred that that would be something for me to look forward to.  As I settled my bill (just INR 125 for some laundry) the receptionist took a telephone call.  "I am sorry sir, they will finish by around 9.15pm" the receptionist said.  By that I realised that someone was ranting about the "infernal noise" from the music and dance presentation on the open air stage.  Go too far back on that stage and you are over the cliffs into the sea.  Somehow the face and voice of grumpygermanman flashed through my mind.


Sure enough at 1.30 am when we met for our departure that was one of his 1001 points to complain about.  His litany lasted all the way to the airport.  I took my seat in the plane.  Who was right behind me?  Oh yes.  There he was.  At the end of the flight he presented his addendum of complaints.  Worst flight ever apparently.  I fly a lot.  I had my tempur transit pillow (best thing ever) and my ipod (even better thing ever).  I had an on demand entertainment system.  I had a comfy seat and great service.  grumpygermanman had 101 things to complain about.


Poor grumpygermanman.  We had the same holiday.  I came home relaxed and happy.  Grumpygermanman, I fear, returned to his office on the Monday morning to be renamed evengrumpiergermanman.

spa visit in porkandcabbageland

Just finished the Indian washing, when 6 ladies came to stay for the weekend.  We planned a spa visit for Sunday.  There is a thermal bath in waltzcity at Oberlaa with an exceedingly good cake shop.  But we decided to see a bit of the countryside and headed for the town of Baden.  Beethoven used to escape to Baden for the summer and walk in the hills and drink the local plonk.  


Off we went on the public transport.  We took the underground which does not actually go underground very much.  And then we took a tram that calls itself a train.  The tram thing took us through the middle of all the ugly industrial estates at the south of the city.  Not quite what I wanted to show the ladies.  It took us about an hour to get to Baden. On the journey my guests were eager to know all about life in porkandcabbageland, how long we have been recycling our rubbish, how long people wait for operations (not at all), how the ordinary people live (well) and so on.  There were shocked gasps when I told that there are no curtains round hospital beds.  The ladies were all nurses.


Once there we made our way straight to the thermal bath and off we went.  We stepped into the first warm pool inside and followed the schedule of bubbles and jets in different parts of the pool every 5 minutes.  Next we headed outside to loll in warm water at 32 degrees with our heads in the freezing cold. Another schedule of jets and bubbles was to be followed.  As the bubbles appeared, one of the ladies regretted wearing a two piece swimsuit.  The bubbles inflated her top making her look like a fat lady from a saucy postcard.  We laughed.  The elegant Austrian ladies with their pencilled eyebrows and red lipstick and startled look from the hair pulled too far back laughed too.  


The final pleasure was the sulphur pool.  At 36 degrees it was as warm as a bath.  Warnings were posted not to spend more than 20 minutes in there.  Disastrous consequences for the circulation were promised to those who did not comply.  And so we dashed round that pool rather quickly. We looked forward to the benefits for our joints and organs.  Soon we had to dash out or risk paying an extra 1.70 for overstaying our time. 


Smelling of rotten eggs, we made our way to see the town. The house where Beethoven composed his 9th symphony, the elegant Kurpark, the flashy casino and - inexplicably - 3 open shops were viewed with appreciation.  


The map then guided us to the edge of the town to a typical heuriger.  I explained that there would be a buffet of food for self service consisting of pork and cabbage in many many forms and only local wine or soft drinks. The ladies chose their pork dishes.  Some of them opted for blunz'n (that's pork with blood and spices - a bit like black pudding) with cabbage. They liked it. 


As we were there a group of ladies arrived.  From their clothes and make up, I could tell they were Russian.  I looked to see if Ludmilla and  Svetlana from my yoga class were amongst them.  They were celebrating a birthday.  Platters were brought.  Of pork. We left before they started singing.


The ladies were thrilled to discover that our train back to waltzcity had an upstairs, they had been on all modes of transport on their various trips, but never a train with upstairs.  Our skin was soft.  Our hair was crazy.  We had had a lovely day.  Must do that more often.

Last(ing) Impressions

I had planned to spend my last evening in town.  I wanted to look a fish in the eye, and call it dinner.  Off I went in a taxi with fellow guests David and Sylvia.  We had all manner of plans for a nice stroll along the seafront, cup of tea, bit of shopping and then back to a fish restaurant for a non-veg dinner.  About 1km from the hotel, the rain started again.  I was wearing my lovely new red sandals (again).  


When we got to town, David and Sylvia waited in the taxi whilst I repeated my barefoot sandal saving dash to do my errands.  I said my goodbyes and picked up some lemon cake takeaway from my friend Geemon.  We stopped off in just one shop where I admired one of the most beautiful shawls I have ever seen and was "singing bowled" by the owner.  The use of the singing bowl is supposed to free the body of fears. 


 We then stopped at the "Divine Supermarket"  I checked the price of cups.  20 rupees including saucer.  That will be a detail for my email to the hotel manager.  He made the mistake of asking me to give him feedback.


Back to the hotel.  It was still raining. That did not hamper the performance of Indian dance (classical to Bollywood) and Keralan martial arts on the open air stage.  They gave us some tandoori fish for dinner, but it did not have eyes.

cappuccino in Kerala

Not the cup of coffee.  The monk.  2 of them actually, so I suppose I should change the title to cappuccini.  They arrived yesterday in their long brown robes with the pointed hoods.  Not really what you expect to see in a - if not luxurious, shall we say comfortable - resort. I was watching them going around looking holy.  One of them says "God bless you" to everyone who passes. 


My Swiss neighbour explained.  A capuchin monk, Fr. Bernadine started an orphanage in 1989.  There are many "orphans" in India.  They are orphans because they are illegitimate and their  mothers cannot afford to keep them, or they come from the poorest of families and are given up to the orphanage because their parents know that they will be fed there.  Fr. Bernadine had the bright idea to offer accommodation to tourists as a way of raising funds for the orphanage.  The project grew and the hotel grew too.  


The monk I saw strolling around was Fr. Bernadine with a younger colleague.  They also have 2 nuns in tow.  The nuns are old.  They are now starting a project teaching or training girls.  I am glad that the profits from my "holiday" goes to support such worthwhile projects. You can read about the charitable projects here

Bathed in oil

I am now at the end of my stay here.  Beena and Binju have done their worst.  Today, it was a gentle massage followed by an oil bath.  They do not fill a tub with oil and get you to climb in.  You lie on the massage table and they rhythmically pour warm oil over you.  It would be very relaxing.  It is very relaxing.  For most people.  They warm the oil in large pots on a calor gas stove perched on a wobbly stool.  And that is why it is not very relaxing for me.  I lie there and hear the oil sizzling and crackling.  I am just waiting for it to ignite like a chip pan fire of old.  There is no fire blanket.  There is not even a lid for the pot which might kill the flames.  The rickety stool with the calor gas stove is placed directly in the 18 inches of space between me and the door.  There are bars on the windows. I am naked and oily.  How will I get out?  And so I lie there, all slippery, and just a little bit tense.  Every time the pot is removed from the stove, I can relax a bit.  And then the moment comes when they will pour it again.  In my neurotic mind, they have overheated it.  Blisters are forming on my skin before they realise their error.  I am deep fried and truly Scottish.