Then I was off and on a mission. I walked briskly back to the Inn and noisily dragged my bags down to the foyer, settled my bill and went outside to wait for my cab to the rail station. The station was only about a 10 minute walk but with those damn bags I reckon it would have taken me about two hours, not to mention the slow deterioration at the bottom of my large red duffle, anyone have some duct tape? I got to the station quite early and when the train arrived I was so flustered trying to arrange my bags in the luggage rack and attempting to get to my seat without hitting the other passengers on the head, (I’m sure I annoyed more than one person), that by the time I got situated in my seat and looked out the window we were already half way to Doncaster! So much for a last glimpse of my beloved English hometown. I encountered a slight hold-up during my change at Peterborough, where I was helped by a nice young man, who I’d noticed also got on at York, and then by a girl who had been in my gospel choir and was going on the same train to visit an aunt in Norwich. After three and a bit hours the train slowed down as we approached Thetford station where I was being collected by my two best British friends, Ellen and Beth. My heart swelled as I saw them waiting on the platform and even though it had only been a few days since we’d parted in York it was absolutely wonderful to jump off the train to two twinly hugs.
(Ellen, Beth and I at Grimes Graves)
With a car full of picnic goodies it was a miracle we managed to fit my three large bags in along with the three of us. I can’t even put into words how lovely it was to be in an atmosphere that was someone’s home life, not a school dormitory or a hostel but in a friend’s car on the way to a warm cozy home. We hit the ground running (well driving) in the direction of Grimes Graves, an old flint mine although we didn’t know that until we got there. The Coombs’ had often seen the sign pointing towards ‘Grimes Graves’ but had never turned down the road nor looked into its function so it was rather an adventure just finding out what it’s purpose. We took our picnic goods and walked through the fields (very cautious as there were warning signs about adders being about) and set up on a disused and covered mine. After quite a bit of deliberation we decided we would be adventurous and head down into the actual mine to see what all the fuss was about. We were forced to wear hard hats, which were very attractive, and climb one at a time down the narrow ladder into the depths of the ground where hundreds, probably thousands, of men used to work just to make a living in the East of England. Flint is a trademark of East Anglia and it was something I picked up quickly as you’ll notice many of the buildings, particularly churches, using the small, hard, glinting mineral for a distinct look. While down in the mine we met another Californian who had turned semi-British. Funnily enough the reason I was found out was because of my pronunciation of a certain word used for the backside of a person and alternatively of a donkey. I said ‘ass’ when I really ought to have said ‘arse’ had I been trying to be truly British. This is one of the finer cultural differences I encountered during my year abroad. After this little adventure we decided to head to Three Ponds, the home of the Coombs’, so that we could deposit my belongings and decide our next plan of action. Also there was a very real chance of the heavens opening up on us and we thought it would be best to be indoors.
To me, Three Ponds is perfect. Not least of all because it’s the home of some of my favorite people, also the fact that the original core was built in 1596 and just breathes Englishness. We were greeted by Mumma Coombs and Tess, the family dog. Soon after taking cover the heavens did open up and let down a weeks worth of rain in the space of about forty minutes, I loved it. I got a grand tour of the house, decided not to try to drag my luggage up the stairs to my room, and caught up with the twins on the few days of our separation. Following much deliberation we sketched out a plan of attack for the next two days and decided that we should head out to the beach that evening as the sky had cleared and it seemed like a good idea. Our destination was Walberswick on the eastern coast of Suffolk.
(Ellen and I looking out at the North Sea)
We packed a disposable barbeque, towels, some snacks and stopped off at a store on the way to get marshmallows for I found it imperative that the twins experience roasting them. We spent a lovely couple hours on the mostly deserted pebbly beach and even went splashing through the waters of the North Sea clad in our undergarments. Surprisingly the water wasn’t terribly cold and we warmed ourselves by our makeshift beach bonfire that Ellen took charge of. We piled back into the car and headed back west in search of a country pub for dinner. We stopped briefly when we passed a ruined flint church that was burning golden in the evening sun. We ended up going to the Magpie Inn in Stowmarket and a well-known haunt of the Coombs for dinner. The biggest appeal was that it was still serving food as the other two country pubs that we stopped at had ceased the feeding of patrons. I had a very scrumptious beef stroganoff that almost made sitting in soaked, sandy jeans bearable. The night ended with the watching of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, classic British entertainment, wouldn’t you say?
(Blickling Hall)
Wednesday, my only full day, was wrought with promise and a plethora of ideas for activity. After a nice lie in and a full breakfast we decided on a plan of action that first took us to the north, more specifically Blickling Hall in Norfolk and the former home of Anne Boleyn. As we arrived the heavens again decided to open their floodgates, I just couldn’t get a break in East Anglia, so instead of braving the elements we decided to grab a bite of lunch in the National Trust café. By the size of the queue we could tell that ours was not a novel idea. I unfortunately sampled a certain stew of which I can’t remember the name but which I would most certainly dissuade you from ever eating. It would have been edible if it weren’t for the distinctly awful aftertaste that deemed it utterly disgusting. We spent a good few minutes watching another woman attempt to eat it only to find that she seemed to enjoy it! Something was obviously very wrong with her. After lunch we toured the house, atypical of the period, which meant very grand indeed. The Boleyn’s did well for themselves, I suppose the headless Anne may not agree in retrospect. I particularly enjoyed the kitchens of the estate along with some other informational exhibits on the lower being of the house, i.e. the servants. Because of the foul weather we didn’t spend nearly enough time in the grounds, which I assume would be lovely for a picnic on a sunny English summer day.
(Sheringham)
The afternoon wasn’t as determined as the morning as we went in search of a particular steam railway running along the north Norfolk coast. We arrived at one end only to be told that we’d missed the last train from that station, I tried to argue but was politely deterred. Apparently there was no way the lovely little American girl could read a timetable better than the railway employee. We then drove on to Sherringham, the other end of the line and a nice little coastal town where we found that we could make the last train. However, after all the effort it just didn’t seem worth it and the call of dinner pressed upon us. Instead we walked down the sloping main street to the shore front promenade where we admired the sea as the sun gave some small acknowledgement of the season and Beth and I ate ice cream (we were at the beach, it only seemed right.) Before heading out we thought a stop at the Robin Hood, a cozy looking pub, was in order. I had local Norfolk ale while the twins went for something a little more appropriate to a cold afternoon: tea. Next thing we knew it was time to head back towards Three Ponds as I’d promised to make a dinner of my famed red wine risotto as payment for the accommodation and entertainment provided by the Coombs family.
(Mine and Beth's Beachy Ice Cream)
The dinner turned out perfectly and the weather began to look up a bit as well. I’d like to think I had something to do with that. We made a perfect pitcher of Pimm’s with all the fixings and laid the table out in the conservatory. I can’t think of a better way to spend my last evening in Suffolk. But it does gets better. Ellen and I strolled through the country lanes to a local pub and even braved a panther (this is debatable) infested cornfield in order to gaze at a monument remembering St Edmund. Beth met us later (she was preoccupied with a certain boy on the phone!) and we enjoyed our drinks before walking home through the crisp night. While we were gone, Mumma Coombs being the lovely lady that she is, had prepared for us an apple crumble that we enjoyed while watching Love Actually before retiring for the night. I could have stayed there forever (though I’m sure both Ellen and Beth would tire of me very soon not to mention Mumma Coombs and Tess!) I loved being with them and felt entirely at home. I also didn’t realize how hard it would be after leaving on a London-bound train, maybe if I had I wouldn’t have gotten on it.
