It was a drizzly Sunday in late July when I set off from Kent to Thetford in Norfolk where the forecast looked decidedly better. I normally use the train to reach my cycling destinations, but in the interest of social distancing my ancient Ford Focus got its chance to show what it can do!
The scenery was quite interesting as I approached Thetford on the A11, with a 127-foot war memorial column and scattered bits of forest. I parked in a free car park (rare as hen's teeth, as I believe the saying goes) and cycled into the town centre, settling upon a Greene King pub where I had to text a number to sign in. Outside there was a statue of Thomas Paine, known as the Father of the American Revolution, with his quotations etched around the plinth. I generally agreed with all of these, although some patriotic young people passing by loudly expressed an opinion that the statue shouldn't be there. Dad's Army was filmed in Thetford too, doubling as Walmington-on-Sea in spite of being over forty miles from the sea. After Norwich, Great Yarmouth and King's Lynn, Thetford is Norfolk's fourth largest town.
I cycled eastward on a cycle path and then an undulating lane as it got dusky. There was a strong smell of peaches, and I turned left onto the Peddars Way path which follows the route of the ancient Roman road for 46 miles to the North Norfolk coast. It is believed that the Romans merely straightened out a much older trackway that was an extension of the Greater Ridgeway. I set up camp at the edge of a small wood, eating bread, fish and cheese before sleeping.
I was awake as it got light, and once it was clear that I wasn't going to fall asleep again I packed away and tried to pump my bike tyre up, but I couldn't attach the pump, so I had to ride all the way back to Thetford on a flat tyre. After waiting for Halfords to open I learned that there was no mechanic available. I then tried a bike shop in a council estate but it was shuttered up and someone said that it had been that way since lockdown started. In the end I drove to a repair shop in a forest park about six miles away, had a short walk while waiting for the fitting of a new inner tube and then returned to the same car park in Thetford and started again.
Beyond the point where I'd camped, the Peddars Way became an 'official' cycling route, with the occasional deviation where the Roman route no longer exists or is merely designated 'footpath.' There are clear signs to deter cyclists from using the footpath sections which is fair enough – clarity reduces the temptation to try one's luck! The terrain took me through forests, along wide farm tracks clearly made for large agricultural machinery and along lanes which occasionally subsumed the Roman course.
Contrary to popular opinion I can confirm that Norfolk is not flat. There were some significant climbs, but whereas in Kent these are often short and sharp, in Norfolk they tend to be long and gentle without the reward of a spectacular view at the top, which isn't to say that the countryside wasn't very pleasant. In addition one has to plan a bit. In more populated counties one gets used to finding a shop or pub within three or four miles, but well-endowed villages can be much greater distances apart where the population is spread more thinly. I also noticed that on the main roads mileages to significant towns are often in the thirties whereas in Kent you'll rarely see a distance above the teens.
With all this in mind, I decided to detour to the town of Swaffham and refuel with a couple of Guinnesses outside the Red Lion (the most popular pub name in the UK). An elderly woman from Dereham chatted as she passed me, and although it was only 4pm, I tucked into lasagne, chips and salad in a café, again not knowing how far the next facilities might be.
Back on the Peddars Way, I soon came to the village of Castle Acre where I wandered around the outside of the impressive ruined priory. Three young ladies were trying to record a promotional video of some kind by a stone archway which was once a gateway to the village. I waited until they messed up a take to wander in and take the obligatory photo on my phone (of the arch, not the young ladies!). As the village name suggests, there was also a castle here.
After a second night's camping I continued all the way to Holme-next-the-Sea. There were a lot of fields filled with 'pig huts' and I stopped to look at a Bronze Age burial mound or barrow along this section. Later I passed through ground owned by 'Sandringham' and the hills became more bumpy. The final miles of the cycling route were on lanes, with a fairly challenging climb before Ringstead, where I bought some pills for my headache which I think was merely muscle strain from the wild camping.
After briefly resting on a bench at Holme, where I decided to avoid running the gauntlet of flying golf balls to get to the sea, I rode to the resort of Hunstanton, one of the only places on the east coast of England where the sun sets over the sea, due to its location on The Wash. I stopped to photograph the classic view of the lighthouse through the stone arch, just as I did with my father in 2001 when we were visiting all the mainland lighthouses for our book project, 'England and Wales in a Flash.' A board informed me that St Edmund allegedly landed here and after his reign he was used for archery practice and brutally killed, with a wolf reputedly guarding his head afterwards. I continued into the bustling town centre and found a café where I had a full breakfast with black pudding. Although the town has the feel of an upbeat 'Margate' or 'Hastings,' its population is surprisingly under five thousand.
I continued southward via Heacham and Snettisham, managing to avoid actually riding on the A149 which had a huge queue going the other way, towards Hunstanton and the beach no doubt. So much for social distancing. I passed milestones with the distance to King's Lynn counting down from '10' to '8,' which was where I turned off and found a nice pub beer garden, meriting a stop. This was just as well as a glance at my 'map app' revealed that I was going the wrong way.
The road wound its way up towards Sandringham, with a regal looking avenue where the forest was kept beyond neat lawn-like verges - an approach fit for a queen! My next port of call was the small town of Fakenham, and I didn't pass a single building for about five miles on one particular lane, which ran through a valley with strips of evergreen forest on the gentle slopes. I paused for a rest near a bridleway section and a lady in a car asked if I was alright. People are nice here, you see!
Eventually I got to Fakenham, sussing out the suitability of a heath-like area for camping before heading for the town centre, resorting to Wetherspoons as I fancied a curry, thus breaking my embargo on the chain. Reading their magazine, it seemed that Tim Martin's comments about furlough were widely misreported and that he merely said that he wouldn't blame his staff if they got jobs in supermarkets, so perhaps my stance on Wetherspoons was too hasty anyway. Whilst fake news abounds online, it is worrying when reputable media sources prefer to go for whatever makes a good story than sticking to the facts. With my conscience clear, I was pleased to see that Fakenham itself had a good social distancing system where arrows ensure that the observant always walk on the left pavement.
The rest of my trip involved taking in Dereham, which is the capital of the Breckland district of Norfolk, and Watton, where I found the locals particularly friendly, although when I moved to a quieter part of the pub I did overhear a woman in tears being told to 'get a grip' by her friend. I hope their girls' night out was salvaged.
Often foxes can be heard barking incessantly in the night when wild camping, but the area around Thetford is also rife with military activity. I got used to the planes and helicopters, but one night it sounded as though machine guns were repeatedly being fired. My horror-writer friend from Norwich also came out to meet me one day, relishing a photo opportunity with a statue of Captain Mainwaring in Thetford, racing up the steps to the top of the castle mound and possibly relishing the cider even more.
On the sixth night of camping I hung a tarpaulin from branches and camped beneath it as showers were forecast. This cemented my decision to make the following day the finale. During this, I rode along the Harling Drove, a ten-mile route through the forest north of Thetford, which uses sandy tracks (difficult for cycling) and the occasional lane. I added this to the collection of ancient droves that I've cycled, specifically the Shaftesbury Drove and one on the Isle of Wight. This was the first day of compulsory mask-wearing and I searched in vain for a shop selling postcards of Norfolk in Thetford before driving home. The merit of trying to skimp on a bit of money by using the Blackwall Tunnel instead of the QE2 Bridge was questionable as I encountered a two-mile queue, but I can confirm that the 'improved' section of the M20 around West Malling is much better than it used to be during rush hour.
If you've enjoyed this write-up there are many more in 'Stair-Rods and Stars - a Cycling Perambulation.' You can also feel good by helping independent authors in the cut-throat world of publishing!
