Date : Sunday April 24th 2016
Walkers : Whitts and Phillips (one faller who will be travelling by bus)
Up and at ’em this morning but very slowly. A gentle swim followed but flipping lovely breakfast but clearly our plans were going to have to change. Dr Whitts had diagnosed a tri-band injury in Mrs Taylor’s left leg for which the treatment is REST. After negotiating with the hotel (which didn’t take long as they’re so lovely, I may have mentioned this before) it was decided that Mrs T would stay on at the hotel until lunchtime and then catch the coasthopper bus to Blakeney where hopefully she could check in slightly early at The White Horse and await the arrival of the hard core. There was a vague attempt to organise a rendezvous en route – possibly Mrs Taylor could meet us at the pub in East Runton where she said could wait for us “outside, with a pint of crisps” but we declined as it sounded too complicated and frankly a bit odd.
Just the two of us then. Ignoring the snow (yes) and picking up tubs of salad and smoothies (yes) for lunch we struck out through Cromer and set our sights on Sheringham via the caravan parks of East and West Runton. As is our way, we put the world to rights en route and picked up the pace until we hit Beeston Bump. Over taken at this point by a group of MAMILs on bikes we girded our loins and made the ascent. Totally worth it. Made sure that we took lots of photos for Mrs Taylor for a spot of nostalgia and then received a text from her saying that we could walk round it rather than over it if we couldn’t face it. Right.
Sheringham was so lovely as were the murals along the coastal walk route. Dived out of the rain near the boating lake and then set our sights on Weybourne, traversing the Sheringham Golf Course where we became temporarily six years old watching the steam train puffing back and forth. More skylarks accompanied us here as did a drone which suddenly appeared just over our heads, military intelligence or my mum checking to see if I had enough layers on ?
Weybourne for lunch where, inevitably, some blister care had to be undertaken. Shingle (our least favourite thing) was back on the agenda so the next mile or so past the Muckleburgh Collection was a tactical meander avoiding as much of the darned stuff as possible.
Salthouse and we headed inland. Marvellous. Stopped at the Dun Cow for a half of cider. Even better. On the home straight now. Toddled through Cley where we saw a wedding at the windmill (how very nice) and took the executive decision to cut out the last stretch of shingle/marsh and follow the road into Blakeney where we had our very own welcoming committee. Aside from the fact that we had missed dear old Mrs T we agreed that this had been our best day’s walking yet.
We had managed to book ourselves our very own tiny house to sleep in, or so it appeared. Even better that we had our own front door that opened straight onto the street although it was generally felt that next time we should try to remember to lock it and indeed close it when retiring for bed. A strange kind of delirium had set in due possibly to fatigue (us two) or lack of social interaction (Mrs T) so that after supper and in bed by 10 there were still japes to be had which would have been amusing had it not been for the fact that photographs were taken and Mrs T’s lack of familiarity with just who receives her photos when she sends them using Whatsapp.