whilst you were home on the pits again we took the metal road north to the norfolk coast to walk among flooded saltwater creeks and along the disappearing shores of forgotten beaches. the sea defences abandoned at cley next the sea and salthouse, turning the dun cow public house into the real last chance saloon. here plates of whitebait were washed down by pints of wherry, the conversation turning to rumours of sea trout and bass caught in the nets that the freelancers post on the mudflats. we billeted well inland at a gatehouse north of helhoughton, deep in the woods opposite bunkers hill. a small house at a crossroads complete with picket fence, a week of sleepless nights with the devil in the ditch, daytime escapes to big skies down back roads past flint dressed pubs called the ostrich on whose tile floored bars nelson’s blood is still fresh. a daytime haunting of bookshops, junkshops, arcades, auctions and cashed out afternoon car boots where the cauliflower is king. all the way home via hunstanton where we played spot the barrage balloon on the beach and sang the praises of the artist james hawke outside supafry.
celebratory old town serge jacket fit for kenneth rowntree on the birdtable