On those rare occasions when the sun comes out, the wildlife of Blighty flocks to the coast like migrating wildebeest. Not one to buck the national trend, Liam poked his toe out of the front door and decided a day trip was on the cards. He had Cromer in mind, a seaside resort on the north Norfolk coast. The town was in carnival mood and Liam fancied his chances in the knobbly knees contest. To my ear, Cromer sounds like it should be north of the border not north of Norwich. Half an hour across the flatlands, we reached our destination. An hour later, we managed to find somewhere to park. Cromer is a dainty and neat little place serving up the time-honoured seaside fare of battered fish, non-dairy ice cream, snotty sea food and cream teas on doilies. The town was packed to the rafters with day trippers getting in the way of these gay trippers. A bracing wind blew in from the bleak North Sea and crazy bathers braved the chilly waters. We were a long way from the fierce Meltemi Wind or the warm waters of the Aegean. The elusive festival was nowhere to be seen. Slightly dejected, I took Liam and his prize-less knees to the pub for a drink. I ordered a glass of white at the bar. The burly barman dressed in a riot of freshly-inked tattoos (just like the skies, tattoos are big in Norfolk) was having none of it. “We don’t sell wine by the glass,” he said in his farmer’s twang. The scary regulars stared on as they supped pints of the usual (whatever that was). That was that. Time gentlemen, please. As we headed back to the car, I caught a glimpse of a large fading poster flapping in the wind. Jimmy Cricket was the star turn at the end of the pier show. I thought he’d long since dropped off his perch. Perhaps it goes to prove that old jokers never die, they just go to Cromer. That’ll be me, then.

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Jack’s Titanic Tale

Imagine the absurdity of two openly gay, married, middle aged, middle class men escaping the liberal sanctuary of anonymous London to relocate to a Muslim country. I chronicled our exploits with the mad, the bad, the sad and the glad in a blog for the whole world to ignore. Then came the book which became a critically acclaimed best seller. Its success opened out a whole new career for me, firstly as an author, and now as an indie publisher. Who'd have thought it? Certainly not me. In June 2012, we ended our Anatolian affair and paddled back to Britain on the evening tide, washing up in Norwich, a surprising city in eastern England, then to the wilds of Norfolk as the only gays in the village. I’m sometimes nostalgic for our encounters with the hopeless, the hapless and, yes, the happy go lucky. They gave me an unexpected tale to tell and for this I thank them.

24 thoughts on “Seaside Special”

  1. Jack,

    You really have mastered the art of a memoir moment written with your characeristic verve. The photos capture the (as I heard it) somewhat maudlin mood perfectly.

    Liz

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    1. Thank you. It was actually kinda fun in an ‘as time goes by’ way. I love to observe the oddities around me. Mind you, they probably think I’m the odd one! 😉

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  9. Jack, you’ve just got this great way of describing it. I know Cromer – at the tend of the day, what do you think is better? There or Bodrum?

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    1. I shall tread carefully here. They are both pretty seaside resorts with much to commend them. If I had to choose, it would have to be Bodrum, if only because of the sun, the sea and the liberal lifestyle.

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  11. That pub sounds similar to the one in An American Werewolf in London (if you ever saw the movie back in the ’80s). Remember the pub on the moors? The backpackers walk in, the bar chatter stops, the guy at the dartboard misses his throw, they all turn and stare at the new arrivals. Maybe the same response when you asked for wine by the glass? Perhaps you should have asked for a jug!

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