After leaving home just too late, I cycled furiously up to Liverpool Street, threw my bike in the guard's van and settled in my seat. A big, comfortable seat with fat, padded armrests, in a cavernous carriage. And only then did I appreciate that there actually was a guard's van, that this was a train where it's possible for a cyclist just to pop on board, without feeling that a bike's a special need the train company will grudgingly accept only if booked in beforehand. And the staff. Hard to tell how many, but visibly between four and six, all of them very lovely and pleasant.
All this from someone who's used to travelling on Virgin trains, with their aspirationally slimline carriages, seats and racks. This just felt altogether more relaxed and civilised, like we were being taken care of, in the sense of people actually doing it, rather than simply carrying out a business delivery process that enacts a benchmark called care. Felt like they might actually be called Guards rather than Revenue Protection Officers.
Then again, maybe it's not so much about being Virgin as where you're going, northward to the business centres of Birmingham and Manchester. A sense of travel that's about slick efficiency, getting there quickly, and being made to feel like the hurry indicates importance; rather than a more leisurely process of enjoying the journey, the people and the scenery. Travelling to North Norfolk, where I was bound, seemed to be a pleasure in itself.
This had not come easily. The difficulty of my destination had meant hours spent planning and juggling complex logistical shenanigans, checking and cross-checking times, distances, modes of transport and accommodation. And money. It would be possible, but it was very tight. No margin for missing the train up, nor did I want the extra expense of shelling out for another ticket should I miss my pre-booked return reservation.
Sheringham. End of the line. For me and for the train. The nice lady with whom I'd struck up a conversation on the last stretch of the line had told me it stopped here because of Dr Beeching's cuts to the railways in the 1960s, echoing what I already knew from experience in North Wales. What I hadn't known was that he was the first person to insist that railways should pay their way. We got into some speculative conversation about their original Victorian purpose, of getting people to the seaside, which created economically flourishing resorts, the railways serving to stimulate this growth. Yet the tide turned, and Beeching insisted that the infrastructure, the enabling mechanism, should itself pay its way. Rather like saying that we want people to be healthy and drink lots of water. So let's try to make money out of water. Ah.
Only weeks after the announcement that the Beano was going to fold, it's astonishing to discover Sheringham. It feels just too much like a Hollywood version of a period seaside resort. Everyone very genteel, white, and no riff-raff. Plenty of art and theatre, with none of Bamforth's northern seaside rudeness. All simply very nice. A place that existed only in an imagination fuelled by children's comics and black and white films of the 1950s. To see this in real-life had me astonished that places like this actually exist, in colour.
But, no time to dawdle. Time pushed me on and I headed down the coast road. The lady on the train had recommended the national cycle route, as the main road (A149) was "very busy." Very busy to me is the hyper-aware, eyes-all-around, ready-on-a-knife-edge cycle around the Elephant and Castle. "Very busy" around here is on a par with the traffic passing down the street where I live. Frequently, cars would hover unnervingly behind me. They might be parking up, then they seemed to be following me, like a stranger who needed to be watched carefully. Then it finally clicked. They were behind me because I was going slowly, like a tractor. No matter that I was smaller, I seemed to merit the same status as any other human road user. It's like these people see through the shiny metal of the bodywork (and there is some very big shiny bodywork around here), so everyone's a driver.
Eventually, I got this. Three or four cars queueing up behind me. I stopped, pulled in to the side and waved them past. I've never cycled in London with the victim mentality that seems quite common, the sense of "I'm powerless, so any behaviour is legitimate." But, even so, when you realise that someone's actually recognising your vulnerability, it creates a certain sense of responsibility to acknowledge their awareness. To think "Thank you for respecting my needs, so in return I will pull in and respect your need to travel at the normal speed of a motor car." The sense of human awareness gave me a power and a responsibility that I didn't want to abuse. Yes, I could have just carried on at a steady 12mph, relishing the traffic pile up behind me, but why? Just to wallow in a passive-aggressive power trip? Seemed out of place here.
I have to cover about twenty miles in two hours. In cycling terms, this is no great feat. In landscape terms, this meant hurtling through any number of lovely villages and vistas, past countless fascinating churches, scarecrows and fisheries. Each time that whim to stop and have a nose around got trumped by the pressure of keeping pace and making time.
Arrived at Wells-next-the-Sea with time to spare, so set about getting some subsistence. The lady in the newsagent said there were two fish and chip shops down by the quay, and that Platten's was best (though she really shouldn't be telling me that). Sat myself on the quay, next to a couple of local kids who seemed between school and university, and discussing some personal uncertainties with the calm self-assurance of affluent country kids, rather than visitors, so I asked them for directions to my next stop. They were local but Norfolk rather than Wells itself (so presumably in possession of private transport), but the guy in the adjacent car, who'd obviously heard my request, chipped in and told me the shortcut to where I was heading.
I got to Holkham for 2:30. I'd been aiming for 2:15 but decided there was nothing that could rush the pleasure of my quayside haddock. Went to see a show, followed by dinner and drinks with friends. A lovely local gammon and chips, with the most delicious of duck eggs on top. And a quick cycle back down the road to bed.
Day two. There was no possibility of getting back home the same day, so I'd decided to stay overnight, return late, and give myself the whole day to cycle back in ten hours along the route I'd arrived by in two. That allowed a lot of things to give and flex as I fancied. 'The route' involved little of the outward road (A149) itself, and much deviation both coastward and inland as the fancy took me. Time became the rate at which different features fascinated me, or the possibilities thrown up by browsing the symbols on the map. The absence of a reliable phone signal meant no room for a tiny local perspective, or prescribed routefinder, so I was thrilled by the excuse to buy a map, which opened up the pleasure of surveying on paper the possibilities of the landscape.
I found this taking me on a morning amble among the strange light and wild, massive flatness of the marshes at Burnham Deepdale, all abandoned boats at low tide, as if they hadn't moved in years. Back inland to Burnham Market, a visit recommended by the girl in the cafe, and like nothing so much as Battersea's Northcote Road wrapped around a village green, with comparable numbers and models of premium motors. Met a friend for tea. Onward, down the back roads (possibly the originally-recommended cycle route), past fields and fields and fields, of huge rectangular bales breaking the horizon between the field and the sky.
As I travelled, I got an increasing and impending sense of the dull rumble of power in the land. Names like Nelson and Walsingham remained understated amongst the unassuming but very pretty cottages. And then arrival at back of Holkham Hall. Little to notice at first. The openness of the fields and hedgerows suddenly replaced by a much more insistent brick wall, a clear boundary, a 'keep out' signal that shouldn't need explaining. But, after tracing the wall for some distance, suddenly the grand gates, and through the gates a long avenue leading to an obelisk in the far distance. All the rural wildness replaced by a careful cultivation that shaped nature into a massive celebration of human power and mastery over the landscape.
Cycling down the avenue, without a soul in sight, I felt I'd broken in, having snuck through the gates as they opened to let a van leave. Untroubled by anyone, and following a marked route on the map, but nonetheless feeling a sense of incursion, a sense that all this careful landscaping was sending a clear message that this land was owned. That sense that at any time I might feel a tap on the shoulder or, more likely, an estate vehicle draw up accusingly alongside. Past the obelisk, over the hill, the avenue becomes more winding, its dominance of the landscape giving way to the presence of the Hall itself, allowing it a clear vista over the vast land in front and behind. And, maybe in the blind spot of that vista, the thatched, conical tower of the ice house, a further mastery of man over the elements.
Only as I pass out through the front gates do I feel a full sense of freedom again, returning toward the sea and a rough cycle alongside the marshes, untrammelled save for the low-impact intervention of the coastal path, gradually moving from the deserted marshland, via the occasional "hello" with a passing stranger, to the 'busy' boating centre of Moston Quay.
Come 6pm I realised I'd have to get a wiggle on if I was to make it back to Sheringham in time for my advance train booking to be valid, and not be out of pocket on a full-price ticket. So, back on to the A149. Fast going but missing not so much the scenery itself, as the sense of being able to simply savour it at my own pace. Arrived Sheringham about 19:10. Train leaving 19:57. Just enough time to eat. A small guy with a big St Bernard recommended Dave's fish bar, down Cooperative St. Actually he said "What day is it? Wednesday? Well, then your best bet is to take the next right, then right again, and it's just on your left" in a way that suggested the quality and availability of fish bars shifted throughout the week. Down on the quay, I tucked in, joking with all the passers-by who fancied a nibble of my batter. Back to the station and en route home.
The postcards I'd bought remained in my bag, but got written en route. The guard was happy to tell me there was a postbox behind the 'mushrooms' at the end of the platform at Norwich and, in the quick change at between trains I managed to get them posted before leaving Norfolk on the way back to London.
The reason for this big ramble was 'the show' on Holkham Beach, Robert Wilson's Walking. It's not easy to get to (see Beeching, above), hence the complexities of planning and transport. In fairness, this was the Norfolk and Norwich Festival, and the realities of rural public transport mean that if you live there it's just a given that you have a car, or you really are nobody (and they seem to live elsewhere). The car park was packed when I arrived, and clearly Driving was pretty much a prerequisite.
I'd tried to avoid reviews and other accounts beforehand, but some information was unavoidable: that we'd walk, very slowly, alone, along a three-hour route, and would take in the environment and installations along the way. I'd heard some sceptical reviews that effectively went "This is rather patronising, showing us a slow, leisurely walk and expecting us to find this somehow revelatory. We had Romantic poets when you Americans were just getting started. Tell us something we don't know." That wasn't my experience, and maybe misses the point. The installations aside, of which more later, my over-riding sense was one of unease: that my pace and route were precisely prescribed; that I could walk hardly any distance without a (kindly) supervising presence, even to the 'free' walk back afterwards with its watchful stewards; that I couldn't talk (which I realise wasn't dictated, but seemed to follow from the private, meditative sense it created).
So, to be stopped in my tracks by a gorgeous butterfly on a branch felt decidedly transgressive, and I quickly resumed the set pace with a certain sense of guilt; to walk through open gates feeling unable to close them behind me; to walk past the occasional stranger and feel unable to nod a friendly "hello." That is, for all the free, open, wild natural space, it felt more like having the strictures of an urban environment imposed upon me. That sense of intervention in my free passage. In this context, the biggest delight was the gradual appearance of odd pine cones atop the uniform white posts marking the route, as if some quiet act of collective revolution had been stirring amongst the walkers against this unseen controlling authority and regularity. Unnervingly, in comments about the piece, Wilson has described himself as 'chief architect'. Still, probably proves he's not a Mason.
The installations themselves play out this same interventionist notion in a physical, rather than social sense, foregrounding the incursion of human power into rural wildness. Aside from the (presumably digital) sound, their physical substance is very much of natural materials, but with a tightly controlled form, as if to say "man was here." This is very much focused by the mid-point installation: two long, high walls of planks, creating a long, narrow corridor, with wood chips underfoot. All very woody, all 'natural' in a material sense, but all very man-made and processed. The cooked against the raw of the surrounding trees.
At first I'd thought the location was arbitrary, then I thought it was far enough away to filter out the urban riff-raff, like Glyndebourne, while being sufficiently accessible to those who'd appreciate the art. But a bit of time spent in the surrounding area shows that this piece is a very particular evocation of the sense of place here. Look at the huge rectangular bales in the fields against the skyline and recall the first installation, while its sound echoes the low rumble of jets from RAF Mildenhall/Lakenheath flying overhead, a symbol of US incursion into UK soil. Walk around the grounds of Holkham hall and find the little ice house with its conical thatched spire.
Look at Holkham Hall. A massive seat of power and human intervention hidden amongst the wild marshes and woodlands of the area, signs dictating where you can and can't go. See how precise and neat are the triumphalist arch, obelisk and house, and the huge, regimented avenues between them. Like most country seats of power, this is tucked away from the roads with walls and huge grounds. Only by looking at the map did I realise quite how huge. Invisible from its surroundings save for a small wall. Once you're aware that this is in the midst of the landscape, you can't avoid being aware of the resonance of the power it represents. Walking made specific mention of the fact that it took place of part of the Holkham Estate not normally accessible to the public, and the piece as a whole has a strong sense of highlighting the ancient issues of land, human intervention, ownership and access.
I was passing a bit of time chatting with the box office woman beforehand. We talked about the fact that I'd kept the following day free, which she thought was a good chance for decompression before going back to London. 'Recompression' I joked, but only afterwards did I realise that she was right. It took the best part of a day in the country to regain that sense of freedom and liberty to roam freely, to set my own pace, allow distraction and take off the blinkers of prescription to allow a greater openness to the surroundings.
That the piece manages to create a sense of dehumanisation and authoritarianism amongst such a landscape is testimony to its success. My most vivid memory is coming across the glade containing a dozen or so people on their break in the middle of the walk. All wrapped up in a reverie, sitting at distance from each other, on grey seats (hilariously squishy I discovered) amidst the brown and green of the woods, this seemed to evoke a 1970s sci-fi movie, full of incongruous artifice and human disconnection.
Of course any walking is done with human intervention. That my map has rights of way marked, that I even have a map, that there are stiles, stepping stones and bridges. But these feel benign, rather than authoritarian. They say "Have fun, do whatever you like but watch your step" rather than "Go there, there, there and there. Stop. Go." Years ago, I remember hearing a mountain rescue team being interviewed after yet another fatal accident. The interviewer was pushing them to advocate restrictions on who was properly qualified to go walking, but they were having none of it. That sense of freedom and implicit risk was part of the pleasure. Learning to manage the risk oneself was part of the process.
There seems to be a view that Walking is about introducing the meditative, of giving high-powered urbanites a taste of the slow, relaxing countryside. I have to disagree. The English middle classes seem perfectly familiar with the simple delights of country walking: all that pushy, aspirational, busy stuff is for the plebs who haven't made it yet. If this were the agenda, they'd be bussing in kids from inner-city schools to share these delights. Nor was this the most meditative of sites along the coast. Go a few miles either direction along the coast, and you have vast expanses of marshland, flat and continuing right to the horizon, cast with an indescribable quality of light that creates that spiritual sense of awe, rather than the rapidly-changing landscape chosen. If bringing a change of pace was on the agenda, I could look around and notice quite how many people in the area were just doing things slowly, ambling along the coast, taking their time, and admire quite how much Robert Wilson had changed the people of North Norfolk.
No. Not that, clearly. I'm sure that reading's possible, but find it hard to experience the piece with a perspective that's ignorant of the wider countryside context, and the local landscape in particular. You need to know what it's like to amble slowly through a field to properly appreciate that sensibility being taken away from you; you need to have a sense of the wildness of this coastal area, but also the power in the land. By creating that sense of disturbance from the denial of the natural, Wilson's piece feels profoundly political, inviting us to revisit the frustrations over land use that gave rise to the like of the Diggers and the Ramblers.
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