Great Yarmouth, day three of our Norfolk odyssey, suffered terribly during WWII; in fact, it was the first place to be bombed in WW1, with German incendiaries from those blimp things, I can’t remember the name but it will come to me (possibly at midnight).
Yarmouth was the centre of the herring industry for 400 years or so, til the middle of last century. There’s a museum about it, in the building where they did the herring smoking to make kippers, and the smell of smoked herring that is permanently ingrained in the fabric of the building adds to the authenticity of an already-excellent display with lifelike models of fishermen and fishwives.
We stroll along the beachfront where lots of astonishingly fat British people are sunning themselves in different states of undress. I decline the offer of an ice cream on that basis. We have extremely fatty fish & chips as we dangle our legs over one of the piers. A one-off, it’s a luxury that leaves our Aussie attempts at fish’n’chips (sorry Pauline Hansen) for dead. The fish is moist and tasty; the batter (yes, I ate the bloody batter) crisp and delicious.
The chips were rather soggy. I fed those to the enormous seagulls (by enormous, I don’t mean fat, but that they were twice the size of the seagulls I am used to). It made me unpopular with Kerstin that I encouraged them to come to us, but I have always been a sucker for seagulls for some reason.
Back in Reedham, our Swede left us on the 3.30 train. It was truly sad to see him go ….. but we will catch up with him in Stockholm in a couple of weeks. We have to – I have his duty-free Bundy rum as hostage.
Basil Fawlty being still out of sorts and needing all the sleep he can get, Kerstin and I spent the evening in the pub beside the canal. Seriously, Reedham’s a gorgeous place. The comfortable pub culture, the sense of community it creates as a place of daily relaxation, is catching.