Category: Chedgrave and Loddon

Hair Dos and Don’ts

On a trivial note, the thing that intrigued me about the guinea pig kids I ‘interviewed’ a couple of weeks back was the boys’ hair dos. They tended to fall into two cuts, style-wise – all swept front and centre, or flapping about behind. The front loaders resembled an alpaca, whereas the back flappers were a real blast from the past.

Yes folks, just when I thought it was safe to go back into the barber’s for my number 2 crop, the dreaded mullet is back in town, but with a fancy salon makeover. Not quite the floppy locks of Andre Agassi that bounced across the Centre Court at Wimbledon (before they all fell out). No, modern mullets are…

“… a more blended and refined version of the classic style, often incorporating fades and layers for a more textured and sophisticated look.”

The born-again hair don’t was confirmed on a recent festive frolic in old Norwich. We found ourselves surrounded by mullet-crowned students out on the lash, often accessorising their vintage cuts with a new twist on seventies-style clone-zone tashes and nineties-era baggy trousers – a kinda cross-decade mashup. Best bin the skinny jeans, then.

Guinea Pig Kids

Strolling through our hamlet, you could be forgiven for thinking it’s one sprawling retirement village with more mobility scooters than you could shake a walking stick at. We don’t see too many teens milling about the sleepy streets and kicking their heels. Recently, though, I had a chance to get up close and personal with a bunch of 15 and 16-year-olds – nothing pervy, of course – when I volunteered to conduct one-to-one mock interviews at our local school. I gave up my proper job way back in 2008, so I don’t know who was the more nervous, them or me.

Despite our collective nerves, my guinea pig kids were delightful – well turned out, warm, smart and engaging. It was a chance for them to try out their presentation skills before moving to the next stage of their studies. I was impressed most by their ambitions; less butcher, baker and candlestick maker, more firefighter, engineer, medic and – get this – child psychologist. I really enjoyed the experience, and I hope that having old bones like me as their guinea pig wasn’t too traumatic for them.

Dogging in the Dark

Our little Victorian cottage sits at the top of a semi-rural lane which meanders down to the River Chet, with wood, scrub and marsh all around. You’d think, living where we do, our nights would be as silent as the graves in the churchyard next door. Not a bit of it. Even in the depths of winter, we keep our bedroom window slightly ajar and so our country slumber is often serenaded by a cacophony of sounds from the wild things hereabouts. The song of the tawny owl is both soothing and soporific, whereas the screaming of the horny foxes is eerie and bone-chilling. And then there’s the rustling of small rodents as they feed, out of sight of predators. But most recently, a loud barking has been added to the choir.

At first we thought it was a lost dog – our four-legged friends are as popular as mobility scooters around these parts. But it turns out the barking is the call of a randy muntjac deer cruising for a bit of lovin’ in the boggy thicket. An adult muntjac deer is the size of a labrador and sounds a bit like one too.

We have two species of small deer around us – the muntjac and the Chinese water deer, neither of which is native to these islands. Both were imported from Asia by toffs in waxed jackets – for their sprawling country estates. Inevitably, some escaped into the wild and bred like rabbits. And so it’s all dogging in the dark for these horny creatures – just like the human variety in copses and clearings, lay-bys and car parks up and down the land.

Muntjac
Chinese Water Deer

Sparks, Candles and Cardamom

Suddenly one late evening our lights started to flicker and our electric hob began to beep randomly. Our neighbours, too, were experiencing spooky goings on. With Halloween approaching, we thought it might be a message from the other side. Well, our small cottage is over 170 years old and some poor soul is bound to have kicked the proverbial at some point in the past. Instead of chasing ghosts by rolling out the Ouija board, a saner mind prevailed: Liam contacted the UK Power Networks – the fancy new name for the National Grid.

Engineers were on the case in less than an hour – climbing poles and checking cables. It turned out to be a fault in an underground line running beneath a neighbouring front garden. Nothing more could be done that evening and so, as a safety precaution, our electricity was cut off. Out came the candles, on went the transistor radio. Early the following morning, a lorry-load of strapping lads in hi-vis vests descended upon us, their power tools cocked and loaded.

While they got down to business on the fault, we were wired up to a bloody great generator on wheels parked outside. “Is that cardamom I can smell?” asked the sexy sparky as he poked cables through our cat flap and up through our coffin hatch to the fuse box. Now there’s a man with a keen nose, I thought.

The faulty power line was repaired by nightfall. Job done. Here’s one of the sparks and his dancing feet disconnecting us from the generator before plugging us back into the mains. A fella happy in his work.

We can’t fault the fault fixers. A tip-top service from the big boys with their big toys, can-do attitude and ever-friendly smiles. Thank you.

My Garden Follies

After a long hot summer of sweaty nights, autumn waits impatiently out to sea and nights are cooling. The changing season has brought with it a welcome respite from the semi-drought. Apart from the occasional monsoon-like downpour that evaporated almost as quickly as it landed, we’ve had very little rain this year. And as East Anglia is the breadbasket of England, the thirsty fields are desperate for a good drink. Our little plot has managed to get through the dry patch relatively unscorched – with the help of a couple of water butts replenished by the odd thunderstorm.

And with shorter days, cosy evenings and frosty nights on the horizon, it won’t be long before the garden goes into hibernation and I’ll have to put away some of our garden toys – my follies, I call ’em – which can’t take the cold. The evil eye hanging from a branch is looking particularly worse for wear. I should’ve bought a new one when we were on Ithaca. Oh well, there’s always next year.

Greek Intermission

While we’re away on our Greek odyssey clambering over old tumble-down stones trying not to break a hip, here’s a few of my pics that didn’t quite make the cut, mostly taken in or on the way to one drinking den or t’other. Yamas! 🥂

Lest We Forget

We joined the enthusiastic crowd of locals gathered on Church Plain in front of the Loddon War Memorial to celebrate the 80th anniversary of VE Day – the end of the Second World War in Europe. The organisers did a splendid job. So too did the kids from the local primary school who serenaded us with a medley of wartime songs made famous by forces sweetheart, Vera Lynn.

On the very first VE Day, millions took to the streets for a monster party which was followed, no doubt, by a monster hangover. It’s hard to imagine the immense sense of relief that must have been felt on that momentous day by those who’d lived through six long years of conflict. And also the immense sadness for those who didn’t make it. There are few people still alive today who have direct experience of that terrible war. And soon there will be none.

‘Jaw, jaw is better than war, war’ is a famous Churchill misquote from the Cold War. But with so many hot wars burning around us and the disturbing rise of nasty fright-right nationalists, I wonder what those brave souls died for. Lest we forget? Tragically, I think we have.

On a much lighter, brighter note, the good burghers on Loddon Town Council have compiled a fantastic history trail of local WW1 and WW2 sites hereabouts. It’s a fun and fascinating glimpse into all our yesterdays.

Wartime TrailDownload

Nowt as Queer as Folk

Ours is a quiet little village where little happens except for occasional (but mercifully rare) low-level anti-social behaviour – like bored teens on the wacky baccy and cheap cider mucking about down by the river.

But there’s one misdemeanour guaranteed to get everyone’s blood boiling – dog poo.

Man’s (and woman’s) best friend is big business round these parts, as evidenced by the constant procession of dog walkers passing by our gate during daylight hours. It’s like a pooch beauty pageant at Crufts. That’s what we get for living on the Wherryman’s Way*, just crapping distance from the River Chet. I sometimes think some Norfolk people care more for their animals than the fruit of their loins. That’s country folk for you.

The Wherryman’s Way by the River Chet

Most owners pick up after their charges and dispose of the doggy doings in the various poo bins scattered about the place. Woe betide anyone leaving it steaming by the wayside. Getting caught short risks a verbal onslaught. Making a quick getaway risks being named and shamed online.

Bizarrely, some folk take the trouble to pick up the poo and place it in a plastic bag but then hang the bloody thing on a tree branch like a Christmas bauble. Why? Beats me. As they say up North, “There’s nowt as queer as folk”.

*The Wherryman’s Way is a 37-mile long walking trail that meanders from Norwich to the coast at Great Yarmouth.

Flirty Birds and Pesky Pests

Spring is springing, bulbs are sprouting, the sap is rising and mating season is in full swing. The dawn squawk is dominated by flirty birds in the mood for a little lovin’, and love nests are being adorned with clumps of moss ripped from our cottage roof. I guess our feathered friends are doing us a favour, but it’s hard to appreciate that while I’m sweeping up the downy green slime-bombs carelessly dropped all over our front yard.

And after a five-year gap, the moles are back once more to slaughter worms and decimate our lawn. There are reckoned to be as many as 40 million moles in the UK, and judging by the mini-mountains of mole hills poking up through every patch of open ground hereabouts, it seems like most of ’em live in Norfolk. We’ve been tracking their relentless march beneath the nearby playground and our neighbours’ gardens, and now the tell-tale signs of excavation have appeared along one of our garden fences.

Last time, I counter-attacked with organic repellent and coffee grains. This time, I’ve gone all hi-tech with a German-engineered sonic spike. Apparently, moles are virtually blind and extremely sensitive to sound and vibrations. The spike emits sonic pulses and a high-pitched buzz to piss off the pesky pests.

The jury’s out on whether these fancy devices actually work, but so far so good. We’re keeping everything crossed. Come a summer sizzler and sunny wine time, we don’t want the BBQ toppling into a mole hole and sending under-cooked bangers rolling off the grill.

Chedgrave Common

Shrek – Everyone’s Pet Ogre

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Drama and performance can really help young minds build important life skills. But make no mistake, it takes guts and gumption to strut your stuff on stage in front of a bunch of strangers.

Hobart High School have a proud history of giving us the old razzle dazzle with a feast of young talent. This year’s offering – Shrek, the Musical, a fantastic tale of love conquering all from a kingdom far, far away – was up there with the best of ’em. How apt it was that we saw it on Valentine’s Day.

We knew some of the young cast. Jas and Benny were splendid. And a very special mention must go to Rory in the title role. He strutted his stuff with huge confidence, enthusiasm and the most convincing Scottish accent this side of Dundee. Well done, Rory.