Sheringham to Blakeney 18th September 2020
We are moving anticlockwise around the Norfolk Coast at present. Cromer to Sheringham we suffered significantly from the roar of military aircraft, so hope this will diminish as we walk further west. In order to walk westward we prefer to drive to our destination, in this case Blakeney and then catch the bus to our start point – Sheringham.
We arrive at Blakeney by 11am and are delighted to discover that the village hall is available for free car-parking. What a nice place!
At 11.49 the bus turns up and transports us and several other passengers, all wrapped up with facemasks, to Sheringham Railway Station by 12:15pm. All for free – with my old codger’s bus pass! The North Norfolk coastal bus service (Coastal Hopper) is very convenient for connecting up start and finish points on our walks, rather than having to do a series of circular walks, as we did yesterday between Cromer and Sheringham.
At the North Norfolk Line’s Railway Station at Sheringham (as opposed to the British Rail version which terminates just down the road) we encounter even more pensioners than at Cromer, shuffling around with covid facemasks, keen to relive the halcyon years of steam powered travel – before there are no more years left to them. After making good use of the public toilets we wend our way through the town, which has gone to great lengths to ensure social distancing by having a one-way pedestrian system. If you want to go east then you walk on one side of the road and to go west – on the other. Most people appear oblivious to the system, but at least the council can say they have done the right thing.
We eventually find our way to where we finished yesterday’s walk, adjacent to the museum. Little local museums often appeal to me, but not when our main focus is walking the coast path.
However, I am struck by a most attractive mural adjacent to the front entrance, depicting Sheringham life from the 60’s – a sort of flashback to my youth.
Billy and Betty appear to have achieved celebrity status in Sherringham, as have my daughters and new grand-daughter
Beyond the museum is a concrete promenade overlooking a pebble beach. We don’t fancy walking on either of these, so climb some steps to the cliff-top walk.
The cliff top offers an interesting old-fashioned boating lake at the far end of some formal gardens – a real blast from the past. No-one is using it today and I suspect few do nowadays.
This boating lake must have once been the ‘go-to’ place for kids
However we are afforded great views of the sea from here and the chance to observe beached-based members of the British public.
My eyes are drawn to two elderly ladies meticulously going through a well-rehearsed changing routine, as they strip down to bathing suits they are wearing beneath their clothes. Apologies for my predatory voyeurism! They are obviously hardy souls, considering how windy it is. As their preparations progress, they proceed to inflate floatation devices, before marching purposefully down to the sea. Carefully attaching the floats to an ankle, they wade out into the cold waters of the North Sea. After a bit of ritual water splashing they are evidently ready and set off doing a crawl in an easterly direction, with all the purposefulness of English Channel swimmers.
Leaving the two ladies to their daily exercise routine, my attention is drawn to a younger equivalent. She is dressed in a black wetsuit, skipping athletically down to the water’s edge before plunging straight in and stroking westward.
Returning to more important matters I follow Betty along the cliff top only to encounter an elderly couple coming towards me. They have the terrified look on their faces usually reserved for those encountering a leper for the first time. Realising the cause of their concern, I pause to let them pass at what I think will be a safe distance in these Covid times. Instead they step off the path and wordlessly turn their backs as though inspecting a cow in an adjacent field. The smell of panic is about them, so, understanding all the signals I march past them with a polite ‘thankyou’. Several seconds later I turn and they are still examining the imaginary cow – evidently I need to give them even more space.
After a further 10 minutes of walking we pause to admire the view. The young lady in the wet suit has evidently had enough of the cold sea, but not so her elderly counterparts, who continue to stroke purposefully east against the oncoming wind. It is notable that they are in exactly the same location they started from. Intriguingly they don’t need to go anywhere in order to get their daily exercise. The beauty of their strategy is the equivalent of getting on a running machine. All they need to do is stroke at the same speed as the oncoming wind and once they have had enough they can just get off the ‘treadmill’ and collect their clothes. Ah, the wisdom and economy of years!
We pause again a little further on, where the cliff is suitably elevated for a Coastwatch lookout post to have been built. Appropriately it gives great views of the sea, right out to the wind turbines making good use of the steady east wind. Wind power can account for as much as 40% of UK energy requirements on a good windy day. I love to see them offshore, giving a historic nod in the direction of the gaily painted plastic versions that once betopped the sand castles of my youth.
The Coastwatch building also affords good views of the local golf course. I wonder, on a dull day do they ever watch the middle-aged chaps as they stroke the little white ball in the direction of the fluttering flag. And do they ever feel the need to rescue golfers in the middle of bogey hell? Most unlikely, but I dare-say they occasionally have to call an ambulance when one of the elderly golfers finds it all too stressful and succumbs to a heart attack.
Mindful of our own health and safety we walk carefully by, watching for small white spherical projectiles. No golf balls today, but I do catch sight of a wheatear, dressed in regulation grey morning suit plumage and bobbing like a three year-old in need of the toilet.
As we approach Weybourne the cliffs dwindle in size and are composed of relatively soft glacial drift. Enormous gashes have been inflicted upon the cliffs by recent high tides. We realise that these will provide excellent shelter from the biting wind, whilst we indulge in a spot of luncheon.
The North Sea removes a chunk of soft Norfolk Cliff
The wind not only drives the sea to take great chunks out of the cliffs here, but also sets about grazing trees and even bramble bushes that dare to grow on the cliff top. Wind grazed trees often look as though they have been blown sideways, but in actual fact the process is not about being moved by the wind, so much as the impact of wind chill and salt spray on the growing shoots on the windward side. Both can arrest growth on this side, with the leeward side alone growing normally.
Wind-grazed Bramble
At Weybourne Beach the local fishing fleet is launched from the beach at high tide by a mix of caterpillar tracked tractors of significant vintage. Alternatively they may not be all that old but have rusted rapidly in the salt air.
Our first coastal reed bed presages the shift from an erosional coastline dominated by cliffs, to a largely depositional one dominated by sand dunes, salt marsh and storm beaches. These will be our constant companions until we reach Old Hunstanton where cliffs will once again rear up out of the sea.
Coastal Norfolk Reed Bed
Just beyond Weybourne Beach we come across a fenced-off area with a dust track running parallel to the coast. As we are trying to figure-out the significance of the area in question, the answer comes to us by way of a loud bang and a flare. Suddenly a camouflaged scout-car races along the track carrying 2 surly-looking chaps dressed in khaki battledress. I whip out my camera to catch the action and half expect the scout-car to pull up and for the 2 squaddies to confiscate it. It turns out we are getting a free view of a regular show they put on at the Muckleburgh Collection. As they race on I feel a degree of relief, only for it to be smashed by 2 modern military fighter jets that buzz over our heads. These are obviously the ones that Cromer residents keep complaining about in the local paper.
Muckleburgh scout-car
Down on the beach a concrete pillbox invites closer inspection. As we peer inside, it is evident it is no-longer attached to its footings. I suspect it migrates around the beach when stormy seas pick it up and toss it around like a piece of flotsam. It is an awesome illustration of the power of the sea. I dare-say it would be a nice place for a picnic or for a night under the stars, but you would have to be sure of your reading of the tide tables!
World War Two Pillbox
At this point in our walk an impressively high storm beach (estimated 10-15 metres high) separates the lowland to the south from the sea to the north. It is almost mind-boggling to think that so much pebble material can be moved around in a single storm event, leading to flooding of the coastal lowlands one day, only to rebuild the beach over the following few weeks. The environment and the wildlife that lives in it is in a state of constant flux. This is an ideal location for wading birds and saltmarsh plants like sea aster and poor-man’s asparagus. Such a place would certainly not suit long-lived organisms like trees.
So it is no surprise that we are passing along the seaward flank of one of the UK’s premiere wetland nature reserves and certainly its oldest – The Norfolk Wildlife Trust’s Cley and Salthouse Marshes Nature Reserve. I have never visited the reserve, but it looks like a fascinating place to spend several hours. I did have the chance of a job here back in 2007, when I was invited to attend an interview for the position of visitor centre manager. My then wife, our son and I took the opportunity to drive up a few days beforehand, to look it over. It was a nice building, but I suspect without people filling the place it didn’t have the pull needed to move house from South Suffolk. It was probably my loss, especially as the marriage only lasted another year! Life is full of ‘what-ifs’.
Storm beach, or berm, of large sea-derived pebbles
Poor-man’s asparagus and sea aster occupy a brackish water pool at Cley and Salthouse Marshes
The walking is difficult on pebbles that range in size from about 2 – 4cm diameter. We try the top of the berm, the landward side and the seaward side but none of them suits us. This stuff is a walker’s nightmare!
The high pebble bank stretches perhaps half a mile to Gramborough Hill, beyond which the storm beach is significantly lower. The low-lying North Norfolk Coast, in a westerly direction from here, is constantly at risk of flooding from the sea. When atmospheric pressure is low, there is a significant risk of a storm surge occurring – as happened back in 1953. Sixty seven years ago the storm surge corresponded with high ‘spring’ tides, flooding areas below 5 metres above sea level. This included large areas of The Netherlands, but also the coast of North Norfolk.
The enclosed poster illustrates the potential severity of coastal flooding, including the stark words “Prepare, Act, Survive”.
Environment Agency flood warning poster
From Gramborough Hill we look back towards Sheringham, safely perched on higher ground, with the eastern end of Salthouse Marshes also well protected by the massive storm beach we have just negotiated. Turning to view westward it is apparent that the 11 metre high Gramborough Hill that we are standing on is the highest land until Old Hunstanton cliffs.
Sheringham and storm beach from Gramborough Hill
Gramborough Hill looking west
The lower storm beach to the west of us shows evidence of an incursion by the sea – probably in 2018 or 2019. The photo shows ‘flow-like’ lobes of pebbles marking where powerful waves must have propelled thousands of large pebbles over a hundred metres into the marsh beyond. These great lobes of pebbles show no sign of recolonization by vegetation, so one assumes them to be quite recent.
A lobe of wave-borne pebbles invades Salthouse Marshes
Weary from walking on these sprawling lobes of pebbles, we opt to seek easier walking on the seaward side of the storm beach and are rewarded with the discovery of a sandy horizon midway down the beach. We are not alone in this, with the majority of beach walkers electing to follow the same route.
The tide is at about its lowest now, so any water held in the Cley marshes is significantly higher than the current sea level. This means water percolates through the beach sediment and erupts ‘spring-like’ from out of the beach, before flowing into the sea. At high tide the reverse holds true, with salt water percolating the other way, turning the lowland beyond into brackish water salt-marsh.
water percolating from beach
We now risk an unexpected danger walking along the beach, in the erroneous assumption that we don’t need to turn inland until we get to the mouth of the River Glaven. Had we not checked the map and our position, we could have ended up at the tip of Blakeney Point, 3 miles from anywhere.
The beach car park is at the end of a track from Cley village and provides easy walking for a while. We overtake a young couple carrying a large plastic boat fender they have evidently found washed up on the beach. I know from bitter experience that these are not cheap, so they are a good find if you are a boat-owner. I exchange a joke with them about being well-prepared for the incoming tide. It is one of the more pleasant aspects of walking – the light-hearted exchanges you can have with total strangers.
After a further mile or so we reach Cley village, where we treat ourselves to a snack and clean the sand from our feet as we squat on the sea wall.
Windmill at Cley
Striking out for the last 2 miles of the day’s walking we have to circumnavigate Fresh Marshes (or Blakeney Freshes), by way of a sea wall which ensures it remains so. A National Trust interpretative board advises us that the River Glaven to our right has had its course changed recently. This is because storms are increasingly filling the Glaven with beach pebbles and causing flooding in Cley village. This is effectively an example of managed retreat, with the grazing marsh previously inside the sea wall being given back to the sea to become salt marsh. Doubtless the sea will one day take the remaining area of grazing marsh too, restoring the coast to its natural state of balance.
As we approach Blakeney, the sun is setting and the air is full of that lovely clanking sound of rigging that you get on a breezy day near any marina. In the fading evening light Blakeney has lost nearly all the tourists who were thronging its streets this morning, with only a few hardy souls still enjoying the sea air.
Among them are two small girls playing in the mud by the staith. They are perfectly clad for this, dressed in black wetsuits. I sit transfixed as they skip through the mud like ‘giddy-kippers’ pouring buckets of river water onto the muddy bank before sliding down into the river below. It is a wonderful experience to hear the laughter of children, enjoying the simple pleasures of playing in a natural playground like this. At least some of the next generation will grow up to appreciate the things that we have today, although they will experience profound changes to the Norfolk coast over their lifetimes.
Legs weary after 13.4 miles, much of it on beaches covered by loose pebbles, we look forward to an easier walk tomorrow – to Wells-next-the-Sea.