It was our ‘wax’ wedding anniversary last week – sixteen years and counting. We’ve already got enough candles to light a small chapel, so they were off the gift list, and since we’re not part of the huntin’, shootin’, fishin’ set, waxed jackets were out too. So, we went for a celebratory bite instead. Our venue was the Unthank Arms, a traditional boozer in the heart of Norwich’s ‘Golden Triangle’ – a popular residential district west of the city centre. The Unthank is noted locally for top-notch pub grub, and we used to be regulars before we emigrated to the country.
As we tucked into our meal, I looked up and clocked this old enamel sign above the entrance to the loos.
I’m fairly sure the sign refers to the old 37 bus route in London. Memories of my misspent youth came flooding back. The 37 was my main ride back in the seventies when my dad ran a ‘Bottle and Basket’ convenience shop in South London, making a decent living out of booze and bread. Back then, the 37 bus plied its trade between Hounslow in the west to Dulwich in the south. I rode the 37 to school in Battersea, my Saturday job in Feltham, my youth club in Richmond and my bestie’s gaff in Clapham.
The 37 still runs but the route’s changed since my teen heyday. The iconic Routemasters, famous for their open rear platforms – just right for jumping on and off at red lights – and the (sometimes hunky) conductor and his clickety-click ticket machine, ding-ding to the driver to move on and ‘move down the bus please, plenty of room inside’ mantra have all been pensioned off, more’s the pity. These days, it’s all-electric vehicles that barely make a sound, bored-stiff drivers and bleep-bleep DIY card readers. More efficient, I’m sure, but unlike the seventies, not much of a ride.
We binned the car in 2014 so, unsurprisingly, good public transport is important to us. That’s why we chose a village close to Norwich with a decent bus service – regular and reliable. And Norwich has fast and frequent train services to London for our big city fixes and family stuff. All in all, it works well most of the time. But when the wheels come off, they come off in spectacular style.
Our most recent jolly was a trip to The Old Smoke for a family affair – lunch and a stopover in London’s Spitalfields district.
But then…
… a water main burst, blocking the main road to Norwich. Buses were on divert. That’s ok, we thought, we’ll just give ourselves extra time. After a grand tour of the pretty hamlets of the county, we made our train – just.
And then…
… some poor soul was killed on the tracks just outside London. All trains on the line ground to a halt while emergency services attended the scene. That’s ok, we thought, we’ll just be a bit late. No big deal when compared to the loss of a life.
We were late, but not too late and the lunch went ahead without further ado. Afterwards, we checked into our trendy digs for the night and happened upon a traditional East End boozer to finish off our jolly with a flourish. We were safely tucked up in our comfy bed by drinking up time.
And then…
… we awoke fuzzy-headed to find the water was off the menu – for us, for everyone. You can imagine the commotion in reception. That’s ok, we thought. We had just enough of a trickle for a whore’s wipe, and we’ll get a refund too.
At least our train back to Norwich left on time.
And then…
… a vehicle damaged a level crossing. All trains on the line ground to a halt while emergency services attended the scene. That’s ok, we thought, we’re not in any rush.
We were late, but not too late. Back in Norfolk, the burst water main was still bursting water and buses were still on divert to a hit-and-miss schedule. We waited patiently at Norwich Bus Station. We even had time for a coffee and a custard cream. The bus eventually arrived and we started another grand tour of the pretty hamlets of the county.
And then…
… as we approached a roundabout, the bus ground to a halt. We saw a plume of nasty black smoke in the distance and spotted a vehicle on fire at the roundabout. We were held in a queue while emergency services attended the scene. This is not so ok, we thought.
Our driver finally received orders from Mission Control. “Turn back and we’ll find you a different route.” U-turning a double-decker bus on a minor country road with nose-to-nipple traffic is no mean feat but our valiant driver managed it, ably assisted by a couple of gung-ho passengers. Back on the road, we went on another grand tour of the pretty hamlets of the county. Brooke is particularly pretty. I should know; we drove through it twice. Mission Control then sent us down a pretty country lane and pretty country lanes aren’t really designed for double-deckers.
And then…
… a double-decker approached us from the opposite direction. “That’s ok,” our driver said. “I’ll just reverse into a side road – simples!” And that’s what he did. The oncoming bus passed without further ado. Off we went to the next pretty village along the pretty lane.
And then…
… the lane narrowed and a second double-decker approached us from the opposite direction. With cars backing up, we had nowhere to go except forwards. Our driver attempted inching past the other bus. And it almost worked. But, with a loud metallic bang, bus scraped bus and the window next to us shattered, spraying us with shards of safety glass. We leapt from our seats. The game was up. We were on the road to nowhere.
After mooching around for a while waiting for something to happen, I said, “Sod this for a game of soldiers, let’s walk.”
Home was about three miles along the pretty lane.
And then…
… it started to rain. “That’s not ok,” I said.
After about a mile, a passing car stopped ahead. Hallelujah, it was someone we know. A knight in shining armour. We were saved. Also saved were a couple of other strays from the bus crunch. Thank you, Sir Galahad. You know who you are.
So then…
… we went straight to the pub.
With thanks to members of the Loddon Eye Faceache group for the burning car and bus crunch images.
It was a warm but rainy day for our first forage into Norwich since March’s lockdown. I must admit we felt unexpectedly anxious at the prospect of leaving the sanctuary of the village and heading into town on a bus. We girded our loins, with masks and sanitisers cocked and ready.
It was actually fine. Because of social distancing rules, bus capacity has been reduced and, as we were two of only six passengers, there was plenty of room. This didn’t stop a young couple sitting together in non-designated seats and removing their masks to chat. What is it with the young? They may feel indestructible, safe in the knowledge that the dreaded lurgy is unlikely to bring them down, but that won’t stop them super-spreading to the rest of us.
It was good to get back into the city again. Norwich was busy but not packed – almost normal. Big Issue sellers were back on the streets and most cafés and shops were open. The only thing noticeably missing were the buskers and artists who, in better times, provide a weird and wonderful addition to Norwich’s street life.
Wherever we went seemed well-organised and COVID-secure with lots of one-way systems going on. Most people complied. No one was overwhelmed with punters, though. It’s an anxious time for traders, I’m sure.
After a bit of retail therapy, we headed to the Lamb Inn for a cheeky bottle of blush and some hearty pub grub, using a handy app to order and pay. Our food and drinks were brought to our table by a delightful young waitress. It was all done efficiently and with a reassuring smile. I think this continental style table service might catch on – until winter sets in that is.
We moved to Norwich in 2012 after our four year adventure in Turkey. During this short time, the city has become busier, buzzier, more welcoming and more diverse – from Chinese students studying at the University of East Anglia and South Asians working for Aviva, to the rucksacked troupes of Spanish school kids wandering around thanks to direct flights from Spain to our very own little International airport. Tourism is on the rise, ably assisted by the merry band of volunteer ‘here to help’ street hosts handing out smiles and leaflets. We might even get a bumper crop of visitors from Vietnam – now that the CEO of Vietnam Airlines described the city as ‘irresistible’ and ‘serene’. Same-sex couples can and do walk down the street hand-in-hand and the Norwich Pride event is a firm fixture on the city’s annual social calendar.
Things aren’t perfect – far from it. The increase in rough sleeping and substance use is the most visible sign of this. Not that there’s any cash to fix the problem in the barmy blond bombshell’s big pre-election giveaway. There are very few votes in helping the homeless. And, even in liberal Norwich, small minds still exist. A case in point is the silly man who refused to drive a bus because the route number was displayed in rainbow colours. He allegedly told passengers, ‘This bus promotes homosexuality and I refuse to drive it.’ As we all know, the mere sight of a pretty rainbow can turn even the most red-blooded bloke in an instant. Just like the pealing of church bells makes us all fall to our knees to pray. He was reported to the bus company and suspended, pending an investigation. Good. I have no wish for him to lose his job but he really does need to leave this bigoted nonsense at home and get on with what he’s paid to do.
One gloriously sunny Sunday, Liam chucked me on a bus for one of our regular jollies to the small towns of Norfolk. We caught the right 5a to North Walsham, not the wrong 5a run by a totally different bus company going nowhere near North Walsham. Why two different routes with the same number? Beats me. Must be a Naarfuk thing. The right 5a bumped along twisting country lanes past spooky woods, grassy pastures and bountiful fields of glowing rapeseed. 45 minutes later, we landed in North Walsham’s market place.
According to Wikipedia, North Walsham is…
…an Anglo-Saxon settlement, and with the neighbouring village of Worstead, became very prosperous from the 12th century through the arrival of weavers from Flanders. The two settlements gave their names to the textiles they produced: ‘Walsham’ became the name of a light-weight cloth for summer wear, and ‘Worsted’ a heavier cloth. The 14th century ‘wool churches’ are a testament to the prosperity of the local mill owners.
Sadly, North Walsham’s glory days are long gone. We took one look around and got back on the bus. 45 minutes later we’d returned to Norwich, drowning our sorrows in a bottle. The bus fares were a tenner. That’s ten quid I won’t see again.
Queuing is as quintessentially British as fish and chips, a Sunday roast or chicken tikka masala. I’m all for it. It appeals to my first-come-first-served sense of fair play. And it makes city living just a bit more bearable. Every-man-for-himself is where chaos lies and the Devil thrives. But even I have a limit. Regular readers may recall I recently spent a few days in Sitges, near Barcelona, visiting old friends who’ve just become newbie expats and purveyors of apparel to the queens. Being there was fun, getting there (and back) not so. The entire journey felt like one long, dreary line – through security, through passport control, at the departure gate, up the steps to the plane in the drizzle. All that shuffling just to board a flying bus so stripped back that clinging to the undercarriage of an RAF troop carrier would hold more appeal. This was no frills, no thrills Ryanair, an airline that bombards its punters with emails, changes the rules of the game just for fun, befuddles with an incomprehensible cabin bag policy and pisses off by ‘randomly’ allocating seats that all seem to be in the middle. Statistically, how likely is that? And the flight was an hour late both ways. Oh, the glamour of it all. I drank through it.
Ryanair’s current strapline is ‘Low Fares Made Simple’. Navigating your way through the endless maze of ‘extras’ on their website ain’t simple and, with a monopoly on the London Stansted to Barcelona route, it ain’t cheap either.
Hell won’t be all torture and torment; it’ll be an eternal Ryanair queue going nowhere.
Ironically, real buses here in Norfolk often now come with leather seats, free WiFi and charging sockets for fancy phones. And this is supposed to be a backwater.
Wells-next-the-Sea was the venue for this year’s works outing with Jo Parfitt, my partner in crime and the force of nature who is Summertime Publishing. We love a day out at the seaside when the weather’s set fair. Getting there was a bit of adventure in itself. The first stage was a stately railway journey through the ripe fields, reedy wetlands and sleepy hamlets of North Norfolk. My sedation was only interrupted when I spotted the large station sign at Gunton. Well, it didn’t look like a G to me. The two-carriage train deposited us at Sheringham, a bucket and spade resort where undertakers and vets never go out of fashion. Then onto a little bus for a white knuckle ride along the curvy coast, through flint and stone villages with impossibly narrow streets called ‘Old Woman’s Lane’ and the like. There was little time to admire the view. I held on for dear life, wishing I’d worn Pampers.
Well-heeled Wells is a gorgeous little resort and working port surrounded by pine forests, sandbanks and saltmarshes. We lunched aboard the Albatros, a genuine Dutch cargo ship serving up fake Dutch pancakes. They were delicious. The tide must’ve been out because the boat had a distinct starboard list; I felt quite tipsy even before a drop had passed my lips. Happily, I managed to regain my sea legs after half a bottle or so. We didn’t make it down the agenda to the 2016/17 marketing strategy. We got stuck on gossip. Can’t think why.
The train back to Norwich was packed with sunburnt kiddies and lively country cousins out on the lash. The painted ladies opposite shared shots of raspberry liqueur and a Bottecelli babe squeezed into the aisle next to me. As the crowd nudged past, the shapely Norfolk broad fell off her heels and tipped her ample rack into my face.
‘My, my,’ I said. ‘A total eclipse.’ How she laughed.
You need a second mortgage to park in Norwich city centre. When we moved into the micro-loft, we flogged the sexy-arsed Mégane (to my sister) and Liam now rides the bus to work. He no longer risks life and limb on the narrow country lanes with their tail-gating yokels, blind bends, loose livestock and black ice.
Bus travel in Norfolk belongs to a bygone era. People still (mostly) queue at bus stops and drivers apologise for being late. Just imagine that! It’s the kind of civilised behaviour long since abandoned in London, a place where the law of the urban jungle prevails and it’s survival of the fittest. The last time I visited the Smoke, a bright red double decker actually yelled at me. Over and over it screamed…
This bus is under attack. Call 999!
I’m delighted to confirm it was a slip of the driver’s wrist. Still, it was enough to wake the dead and give nervy tourists on-the-spot seizures. The hapless driver was frantically trying to switch off the announcement as the bus cruised slowly by. After events in Paris, Beirut, Turkey and elsewhere, I felt his pain.
I’d like to give a big hand to Natalie, author of the Turkish Travel Blog. Natalie kindly invited me to be one of the contributors to her splendid post on Anatolian wonders in words and pictures. Her eclectic selection evokes some of the best that Turkey has to offer to the curious traveller, from magnificent high drama to the gloriously humdrum.
My pretentious piece describes Bodrum Otogar (bus station), a modern day kervanseray where nose to nipple dolmüslar vie for space and custom. I wrote:
That’ll be two lira
To imagine daily Turkish life think of sweet baked sesame seed simit stalls, lemon scenting cut throat barbers, piercing purveyors of rapid kebabs, entrepreneurial pantaloon’d grannies on the make, baffled travellers lost in Left Luggage, mobs of weary eastern boys bussed hither and thither, carefree western girls shocking the eye, sallow sightseers with brats in caps and tea sipping cabbies dropping off in the sweaty midday sun. This magnificent entrepôt of the exotic and the ordinary is a typically Turkish tussle and bustle of commotion and chaos.
Take the look at Natalie’s delicious box of Turkish delights here.
We are finding local people to be warm, welcoming and obliging. We’re having fun riding around by dolmuş (or dollies as we call them) though it’s taken us a while to get used to dolly drivers collecting fares and dispensing change as they drive at speed along the highway, swerving to avoid pot holes and untethered cattle. Kindly strangers occasionally stop to offer us a lift, including a sweet little old lady with impeccable English, who pulled over in her beaten up Beetle and gave us a ride into town. She seemed unperturbed at inviting two strangers into her car. Perhaps this is because Turkey is blessed with a low crime rate when compared to the West and, therefore, the associated fear of it is also blessedly absent.
By comparison, Clement fled England because his fear of crime had reached hysterical levels. He’d become terrified to venture out after dark, lest he might be mugged by the drug addicts and beggars who loitered menacingly at every corner. He considered himself lucky to have survived the ordeal. We listened sympathetically and enquired where he had lived thinking it might have been Moss Side or Brixton. ‘Dorchester,’ he replied.
Perking the Pansies 