has been farmed for a millennium. We passed through quaint villages and mellow market towns, unimportant since the end of the Middle Ages when England had turned from Europe to face the New World, and the sight of so many Georgian houses, thatched cottages and Norman churches slowly infiltrated my consciousness until I felt not only the weight of the past but a dislocation in the conventional structure of time.
‘Ten miles to Norwich!’ exclaimed Dinah as we flashed past a signpost.
Opening the map I saw the ancient roads converging on Norwich like the spokes in an old-fashioned carter’s wheel. King’s Lynn, Cromer, East Dereham, North Walsham, Great Yarmouth, Bungay and Ely – my glance travelled around the rim of the wheel and lingered in the east where the famous Broads of Norfolk formed two hundred miles of waterways betweenNorwich and the sea. I had already circled Mallingham in red. It lay south-east of Hickling between Wroxham, Horsey and the marshes.
‘You’re very isolated out there,’ I said to Dinah as she too glanced at the map. I had not been to that part of Norfolk before although when Sylvia and I had spent two years in England during the war we had occasionally visited friends near the Suffolk border. I had always wanted to go to Norwich but it’s a city off the beaten track and not one of those convenient places which one can visit on the way to somewhere else.
‘All of North Norfolk is a backwater,’ Dinah was saying, echoing my thoughts. ‘It’s the end of the road and the tides of progress always seem to expire before they reach us. In fact parts of the Broads are probably much as they were centuries ago – except that in the old days the Broads were larger. There’s a most interesting account written in 1816 …’ and she began to talk about Broadland history while I tried to imagine a corner of the civilized world lucky enough to escape the twentieth century.
We reached the outskirts of Norwich.
‘Where’s the Cathedral?’ I said, alarmed, peering up at the mound on which the Cathedral should traditionally have stood and seeing only a squat plain castle.
‘Halfway down the hill … There! Nice, isn’t it?’ said Dinah with infuriating British understatement, and sighed contentedly.
A spire soared behind the massive walls of the Close. Grey walls shimmered beyond a cobbled courtyard. Groping for my camera as instinctively as the crassest of American travellers I leapt out of the car as soon as it had stopped and hurried to the gateway to stare at the medieval architecture.
‘Shall I show you around?’ offered the native at my side.
Feeling exactly as a lost pin might feel at the sight of a magnet I led the way swiftly into the Cathedral Close.
‘I say, you’re walking fast!’ puffed Dinah at my side. Even Peterson had to lengthen his stride to keep at the appropriate distance from me.
I reached the gateway and the magnet became hypnotic in its intensity. I was no longer a pin but a lemming, and as I crossed the cobbled forecourt my foot seemed barely to touch the ground. I did not understand my massive excitement; it was beyond analysis, but I knew that something of importance was about to happen to me. Reaching the porch I paused beneath the stone carved long ago by nameless craftsmen.
‘Paul, wait! Don’t leave me behind!’
But my hand was on the iron bolt and the small rectangle cut in the massive door yielded beneath my touch.
I entered the Cathedral. The choir was rehearsing the strange, unorthodox English hymn ‘Jerusalem’, and while the sun streamed through the stained glass far above me I heard the disembodied voices soar in an eerie reflection of William Blake’s mystical vision.
I moved forward. The arches towered above my head, and in a flash the past, present and future revolved in a kaleidoscope as I was displaced from my furrow in time.
I felthorribly disorientated. As I shut my eyes Dinah’s voice said quickly behind me: ‘Paul?’ and I
‘Ten miles to Norwich!’ exclaimed Dinah as we flashed past a signpost.
Opening the map I saw the ancient roads converging on Norwich like the spokes in an old-fashioned carter’s wheel. King’s Lynn, Cromer, East Dereham, North Walsham, Great Yarmouth, Bungay and Ely – my glance travelled around the rim of the wheel and lingered in the east where the famous Broads of Norfolk formed two hundred miles of waterways betweenNorwich and the sea. I had already circled Mallingham in red. It lay south-east of Hickling between Wroxham, Horsey and the marshes.
‘You’re very isolated out there,’ I said to Dinah as she too glanced at the map. I had not been to that part of Norfolk before although when Sylvia and I had spent two years in England during the war we had occasionally visited friends near the Suffolk border. I had always wanted to go to Norwich but it’s a city off the beaten track and not one of those convenient places which one can visit on the way to somewhere else.
‘All of North Norfolk is a backwater,’ Dinah was saying, echoing my thoughts. ‘It’s the end of the road and the tides of progress always seem to expire before they reach us. In fact parts of the Broads are probably much as they were centuries ago – except that in the old days the Broads were larger. There’s a most interesting account written in 1816 …’ and she began to talk about Broadland history while I tried to imagine a corner of the civilized world lucky enough to escape the twentieth century.
We reached the outskirts of Norwich.
‘Where’s the Cathedral?’ I said, alarmed, peering up at the mound on which the Cathedral should traditionally have stood and seeing only a squat plain castle.
‘Halfway down the hill … There! Nice, isn’t it?’ said Dinah with infuriating British understatement, and sighed contentedly.
A spire soared behind the massive walls of the Close. Grey walls shimmered beyond a cobbled courtyard. Groping for my camera as instinctively as the crassest of American travellers I leapt out of the car as soon as it had stopped and hurried to the gateway to stare at the medieval architecture.
‘Shall I show you around?’ offered the native at my side.
Feeling exactly as a lost pin might feel at the sight of a magnet I led the way swiftly into the Cathedral Close.
‘I say, you’re walking fast!’ puffed Dinah at my side. Even Peterson had to lengthen his stride to keep at the appropriate distance from me.
I reached the gateway and the magnet became hypnotic in its intensity. I was no longer a pin but a lemming, and as I crossed the cobbled forecourt my foot seemed barely to touch the ground. I did not understand my massive excitement; it was beyond analysis, but I knew that something of importance was about to happen to me. Reaching the porch I paused beneath the stone carved long ago by nameless craftsmen.
‘Paul, wait! Don’t leave me behind!’
But my hand was on the iron bolt and the small rectangle cut in the massive door yielded beneath my touch.
I entered the Cathedral. The choir was rehearsing the strange, unorthodox English hymn ‘Jerusalem’, and while the sun streamed through the stained glass far above me I heard the disembodied voices soar in an eerie reflection of William Blake’s mystical vision.
I moved forward. The arches towered above my head, and in a flash the past, present and future revolved in a kaleidoscope as I was displaced from my furrow in time.
I felthorribly disorientated. As I shut my eyes Dinah’s voice said quickly behind me: ‘Paul?’ and I
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