Charity Walk February 2025

 Wells to Yarmouth

In memory of Amanda

My aim was to walk about 60 miles of the Norfolk Coast Path, from Wells-next-the-sea to Great Yarmouth, setting out on the first anniversary of my wife Amanda's death, and completing the trek within four days.

And my aim was to raise money for the National Brain Appeal.

Accordingly, my friend John drops me off in Wells early on Saturday February 1st, and I start out, a little nervously.....

It is a still, cool, grey morning, but there is hardly anyone about.  The path is puddled and slippery in places, but, despite some worries about my fitness and my knees, the miles begin to fall away.

I encounter a few birdwatchers - one of whom lets me observe a Peregrine on the beach through his telescope - and dog walkers, but through Stiffkey, and Morston, it is quiet.

In Blakeney I stop for a quick drink at the King's Arms, where I stayed with my late friend Lindsay in 2012.  It is unchanged.  Same family ownership; same cosy atmosphere; same beer [Surely a new barrel?  Ed]

Then across the marshes and on to Cley, where a pork pie from the Deli picks me up before the going gets tough on the shingle.

I was dreading this bit, and it is hard going, but the tide is out and so there's a firm strand to follow.  I walk to the rhythm of the plash, surge and withdrawal of the waves - splash, splurge, shlurp; plash, scourge and scrunch - my mind a polished empty plate, as feet and water merge along the miles of empty beach.

These are the deep waters of the German Sea -  Ah yes, what some call the North....  has long been known as the German ..... Pace Mr Strumpot: so little do you understand.

I spy some figures fishing in the distance, near Salthouse.  Then one breaks away and comes toward me, and, for a moment I see Amanda, her hair blowing across her smiling face.  But, all too soon, she is gone, and I am left alone again, thinking of those last few years, when her eyes, so long the sparkling sapphires of her soul, dimmed to dark pebbles in the depth of pools of sadness. 

I spend the night in Weybourne, sixteen miles into my plan, and hardly the worse for the first day.

In the morning the sun shines across frost, and my spirits lift a little.  Much of today is spent tracking the edges of crumbling cliffs, and it's by no means flat - between Weybourne and Cromer I ascend and descend 636 feet in eight miles. 

Amanda and I had a short holiday in Cromer many years ago and I return to the Red Lion for a drink - it hasn't changed much, though it is a sunny Sunday and there are plenty of people about.

Over the golf course, where she and I walked, to Overstrand, where the beach huts are firmly closed,

Then back up and along the crumbling cliffs to Trimingham.  I meet my shadow high above the beach - but I reach out to drag him back....

Another eight miles, and 580 feet elevation gain, and I reach Mundesley - not picturesque, but I have a comfortable room and rest.

Day three dawns bleakly. It is cold (two degrees) and misty and I follow the beach for a while, before taking the signposted cliff path towards Bacton.  What the signpost didn't tell me is that the path is closed at the giant Bacton Gas Terminal....

And it isn't possible to reach the beach from here, so I have to make a miserable detour, following the closely guarded and cctv surveilled fence for what seems like miles.  I then encounter a brace of armed policemen, who fortunately accept my excuses and allow me to traipse on along the busy main road before eventually rejoining the coastal path.

This isn't picturesque scenic Norfolk.  It is a mix of holiday camps, thousands of static caravans and chalets, and wartime relics.

But then the imposing church of St Mary the Virgin at Happisburgh hoves into view, and I know I can find sanctuary.

And as the clock strikes twelve the doors open and I find soup and ale in an old favourite of mine (another that hasn't changed over the years):

But it is all subdued.  There is no sense of summer.  The pub will be there, I am told, until it falls into the sea.....

Yes, some things are reminders of past times.  But....

What good are memories?  These little tombs of the past are dirty and spent.  Not so  very different from remains of the Roman occupation.  Not really so different from the occasional fossil that marks where some forgotten creature died, millions of years ago.....

However some quiet habitations bear traces of life, and I love the idea of these curious refuges:  Sandy Lodge - Sea View - Cliff Top -  Sea Breeze - Dun Roamin - Gulls and Buoys......

Day four and, after a touching conversation with part-time taxi driver Monica from Mulingar, who had recently lost her mother to dementia and who is now watching her father succumb to the same fate,  I start along the dunes, overlooking adult grey seals, grunting and moulting and relaxing after their parental experiences [I feel for them.  Ed]

I meet Larry, a Volunteer Seal Warden at Horsey.  He too has family and friends who are suffering from conditions of dementia, and, bless him,  he makes a donation to my cause.

On to Hemsby, where a sign simply tells me that the footpath is closed.  A cataclysmic tumble has brought the cliffs down to block both the beach and the upper path.  No direction home.  

I slog up past desperate  tattoo parlours and amusement arcades, chip shops and Chinese restaurants.  The bus stops offer no respite, but then a bus careers past me as I hike along the main road.  Fortunately Trivet, a man of about my age, who was born in his home, Dove Hill Farm, is gathering faggots for his wood burner, and he kindly directs me and allows me to pass through his garden to avoid the fearsome traffic.

And so I hit the coast path again, and wearily work my way along the sands toward Yarmouth, thinking all the while of Charles Dickens and Peggotty and David Copperfield and the author's comment that Yarmouth was the strangest place in the wide world and I hold my breath as I pass Caister and its Roman Camp,

And then here it is, part derelict:

Part wishful thinking:

And part fantasy:

But, 62.5 miles on, and barely a blister, and I have achieved my target, exorcised some of my sorrow.

As I sit on a bench and shake the sand out of my boots I reflect on my experience. I recall our move, four years ago, to Norfolk and how Amanda would sit confusedly on the bottom stair, in her coat and hat, with her bag (mobile phone, purse and sheets of pictograms) by her side, waiting for the door to open and somehow for her to be returned to her known erstwhile 'Home.'

And then the descent into incoherence, incontinence, inability to raise herself, feed herself or speak.  She swam slowly deeper into murky depths, encountering strange creatures that would loom out of the blur, and she would look at me, and her distressed eyes would implore me to help her in some way.  Please, I thought she said, dear lord, take me now......

So, there we are.  I have achieved this aim, though quite what it has meant I don't know.  At this point in time, some 100 or so + friends/supporters have donated £3,435.00p (with an extra £546.75p through Gift Aid - so total £3,981.75p) to the National Brain Appeal, either inspired by Amanda's story or by my walk, or both.  

I hope that there may be some more and that, perhaps, some who haven't yet contributed may now feel they can.....

Should you wish to be a part of this, please see my Just Giving page, at:

 https://www.justgiving.com/page/richard-gibbs-1735565578129?utm_medium=FR&utm_source=CL

Thank you

Richard

******

O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,

How can we know the dancer from the dance?

W B Yeats

Among School Children

******

This is for Amanda, and my mother Anna, and Robert, and for all those who suffer from dementia and for those who care for them