Bridges

Bridges. What is it about bridges? Any angler worth his or her hemp (and not the ridiculously expensove Nash Bait Himalyan Pink Rock Salt essential for any carper's bucket of munga) just has to stop to look over the parapet of a bridge if they can or tag it as a spot to come back to, ideally with polaroids on and a handfull or two of bread, even if it has to be liberally laced with that Billy Big Balls salt.

The charabanc is occasionally pressed into work-a-day service with neccessary permisions slips and the magic logo on the corporate lanyard in case Plod fancy a word. I'm tracked I'm sure anyway through the corporate mobile working device I'm suppplied with so my journeys always follow the straight and narrrow and if  not, for a break the discrepencies are calculated and deducted in the ledger.

I haven't stopped to look over this bridge carring the road over the Heacham River before (some Norfolk rivers have the River as a suffix) but my old man urgency symptoms made for a neccessary pee stop, Nikon not in hand whilst the cow parsley was ritually annointed. The water tumbles over a lovely riffle producing a pee inducing sound that would come in handy when the late night dam effect comes into play. Down past the poplars is the Lavender grotto and within the cafe are found the most glorious hot sausage rolls, the ones that that you want with milky coffe, straight back to childhood Saturdays when Granny and Grandad's coppers jar might have built up just enough for a 1/72 Airfix kit. It was always home coooked  fish and chips on a Friday there after Grandad had come in from his skilled tool making work somewhere in Coventry (Herberts?) and if we were lucky some pop from the stone floored pantry in a half pint beer mug.

This is the more bucolic upstream view.

Another day (two days having been spent working in a virtual world up in the lofty garrets of BureBoi Villas) and another valley,  that of the River Glaven.  Across this plain and what was at one time part of a harbour and navigation reaching much further inland is Cley-next the-Sea. Which it isn't near any more. And it's pronounced Cliy. Not Clay.

The upstream view from  a lovely red brick bridge, proper Norfolk. Round here houses are mostly soft red brick, double thick with no damp course or knapped flint, mostly with pan tiled roofs and occasionally thatch. (Norfolk Reed of course) The pan tiled ones often have Flemish or Dutch gables.