Author: anneethompson

Finding Hong Kong

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Finding Hong Kong

I set out (Husband was at work) to try and discover some more of Hong Kong – the bits that aren’t necessarily in the guidebooks. I left the hotel via the Elements shopping mall, because that seems to be the easiest way to walk from the hotel. I’m rubbish at finding my way, and often get lost, so I have a list of directions in my notebook: turn right after escalator, walk to Moynat, walk past sculpture, turn right at concierge, etc. It takes me safely past all the shops which look exactly the same, and to the covered walkways that cross the major roads. There are steps down to the pavement, or a lift, which has a screen next to it showing you who is inside (very comforting if you’re a single female, as can avoid entering lift with weird man loitering inside).

Next to the road are several tall apartment blocks, washing hanging on balconies, plant pots crowding the windows. I walked up Ferry Street, which is busy with small shops and cafes. These shops tend to be open-fronted, so you walk inside and the products are arranged either side, along the walls. There is usually a stool near the door, with someone perched by a till, eating a bowl of noodles while they wait for a sale, or reading a newspaper, or chatting to the person on the adjacent stool in the adjacent shop. I walked along Saigon Street, and could see the end of markets in the streets that joined, and cheaper shops. There were more people, but no European faces.

I reached Nathan road, which is wide and busy, with bigger shops and people look richer, like office workers or tourists. There is a rest area – a small park with granite seats, and trees next to Chinese-style bridges and roofs, sparrows hopping on the ground. I sat for a moment and drank some water, but all the time there is the loud drone of traffic edging along the road—buses and lorries and taxis—it isn’t peaceful unless you’re deaf.

I had decided to walk up Nathan road until it met Boundary Street. I thought it would be easy, to walk along one road, but somehow I managed to be on the wrong street. There was a pedestrian detour, and a tangle of roads, and I merrily marched up completely the wrong one, and then found it tricky to find my way back to Nathan road. The streets were narrow, and busy and dirty, lined with parked cars and vans, people working on the street—so you had to be careful not to trip over men welding or constructing something.

I reached Boundary Street. This is very straight, and marks the line that was drawn when the British said they needed more land because Hong Kong Island was overcrowded. They were given this part of Kowloon (apparently in perpetuity, but that seems to have been forgotten now). There is another tiny park on the corner of Nathan Street and Boundary Street—with a water feature, and plants and seats—rather overshadowed by the huge fly-over which looms above, so you aren’t tempted to stay for long (unless you are deaf—being deaf might be quite nice in Hong Kong, which is one of the noisiest cities I have visited).

I walked to Flower Market Street—which is where all the flower sellers are (clue in the name). It’s beautiful (just don’t look at the fly-over next to it). There is shop after shop, all selling flowers—some in complicated arrangements, tall tubs of sunflowers, great bowls of lilies, tiny bonsai trees. The smell is wonderful.

At the end of the road is the bird garden. It’s along an alleyway, and I wasn’t sure, at first, whether it was sensible to walk there on my own. But then I saw an old man, carrying a birdcage, so I decided it was worth the risk. The alleyway soon opens out into a little Chinese market. Here, you can buy anything you need for your pet bird. There were sacks of grains, and bags of live insects, and different kinds of cages. People bring their birds here, and hang them up, then sit and chat to each other—a bit like taking your dog for a walk. I did see several elderly men walking around, carrying their birdcages, but I felt I should only take surreptitious photos, so you’ll have to imagine.

Behind the stalls, people were chatting, eating their lunch, making birdcages, and feeding the birds. I don’t like birds in cages, but if you suspend moral judgement – which I think you ought to when visiting a culture you don’t understand fully – then it is terribly interesting. The best thing, I thought, were all the wild birds who came for a free meal. All the sacks of grain had sparrows and pigeons having a feast, almost as if in defiance in front of all the caged birds.

Men taking their birds for some fresh air.

Birdcages waiting to be sold.

A parrot looking cross.

I walked back along a street full of fish—goldfish of all sizes, in bags of water, strung up on stands in doorways. Presumably they all survive, as there was shop after shop of them but they reminded me of the fish we used to win at fairgrounds, and they always died.

There was also a fruit market. Groups of men lurked at the back, playing cards or mah-jong, while the women did all the work. The fruit looked amazing, fresh oranges and strange spikey fruit and bright dragon fruit and bananas still attached to stalks. I would have liked to buy some bananas, but the thought of trying to communicate in Cantonese, and the effort of working out the money, was too much. Instead, I bought an unsatisfactory looking banana from a 7-Eleven round the corner.

Made it back to the hotel without getting lost. I was met in the foyer by a worried looking man in a suit, asking if he could help me—I’m guessing I looked rather dishevelled and he thought I had wandered into his posh hotel by mistake!

Insects.

Tiny terrapins.

 

Bags of fish.

Thanks for reading. Have a fun day.

Love, Anne x

Anne E Thompson has written several novels and writes a regular blog each week. You can follow her blog at:
anneethompson.com

 

Looking for a great read?

The Sarcastic Mother’s Holiday Diary

by Anne E Thompson

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Exploring Hong Kong

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We went down to the shopping mall underneath the hotel for breakfast. Found a nice French restaurant (French! In Hong Kong! May we be forgiven…) I ordered waffles and green-tea, Husband ordered Full English, and English breakfast tea. When it arrived, the tea was a teabag in a bowl, and a teapot of hot water. Various comments about the lack of cup, milk, sugar…but we coped.

May is rainy season, so the weather was damp, but Hong Kong has lots of pedestrian walkways and subways and places to shelter, so we walked down to the quay. The streets outside the hotel were refreshingly normal, after the glitz of the hotel and the designer mall. Many of the shops could have been in Europe, but there were also shops with huge teapots in the window, selling cups of tea to shoppers; and Chinese medicine shops, with their boxes of expensive potions; and shops for tourists, piled with leather goods and silk shirts and ornaments, so we never forgot we were in China.

There were also lots of normal people wandering around, mostly wearing white trainer shoes. There seems to be a lot of white trainers in Hong Kong, worn with trousers and skirts and even quite fancy dresses. I guess it’s practical – there are a lot of puddles. I also wore white trainers — an old pair of Reeboks from 1994 (vintage).

Some of the streets were lined with ancient trees, a kind of ficus, with aerial roots that grew down until they reached the earth and could form another trunk. I’ve seen them in botanical gardens in England–here they are everywhere.

We stood for a while on the quay, looking across the water towards Hong Kong Island and Central. It was so exciting, just to be here. (Sometimes I have to remind myself: I’m in Hong Kong…Wow!) The Star Ferry was shuttling backwards and forwards, and there was a junk–one of those ‘typically Chinese’ ships, with big sails (a tourist boat, not an ancient one) selling rides.

We saw the clock tower, which is all that remains of the old Kowloon Station. Luckily it was closed, so we didn’t have to climb it.

We also saw the cultural centre, which for some reason is covered in pink tiles (pink!) and despite having the best view over the water, it was designed with no windows. We didn’t go inside, so perhaps the interior is fabulous.

We walked a little way along the docks, but they’re fairly industrial, so we walked back inland and through the Elements shopping mall where we had dumplings for lunch at The Night Market restaurant.

In the evening, we went to the night market — the real one — in Temple Street. I have heard about this market on previous visits, and it features in all the guidebooks, so I was expecting something interesting. I was disappointed…

The market begins with a Chinese gate (a paifang) and a whole lot of tourists taking photos underneath. The market stretched, damply, for several streets, and is well lit with bright lights, and all the stalls are covered, so the rain didn’t matter (unless you stood in the wrong place and got a fat drip of water on your head). It was quite busy, though not too crowded, and the stalls were full of bright, interesting items.

However, I had expected something more authentic, something where local people might shop for a bargain. It wasn’t, it was a tourist market, and the stalls sold much of the same product, repeated over and over again. The prices were fluid, and you were meant to barter, but it wasn’t fun, the stall-holders seemed bored, if I’m honest. They were obviously selling stuff they’d bought cheaply in China and were selling for a profit – so no one had any really interest in what they were selling, they hadn’t made it, they didn’t seem to even like it. There were leather-bound notebooks, and silk clothes, and paper-cutting novelties, and toys, and fridge magnets. The prices got cheaper the further into the market you went, but after seeing about 10 stalls, really you had seen them all, as they simply repeated. I didn’t like the atmosphere in the market. Usually markets are fun, and the bartering is almost a game, and people laugh and are pleased to make a sale. But this one felt as if something dodgy was happening in the background, and the people selling didn’t really want to be there at all. Perhaps it was the rain and the jet-lag, perhaps it was just me, but I found it unexpectedly disappointing.

The streets surrounding the market are full of street food. People were perched, trying to avoid the rain, and eating freshly killed fish and vegetables and noodles. We walked around, absorbing the aroma and the ferocity that is Chinese cooking. The streets are cleaner than places we’ve visited in China, and the main areas are well-lit and safe to wander around at night (I’m not sure about some of the back streets, but it’s a city—you should always be careful in a city.)

We went back to the hotel, and tried to sleep. I’m not sure what time zone I’m in now–neither UK time nor Hong Kong time. Ah well, I guess it doesn’t matter.

Hope you have a good day.
Stay safe.
Love, Anne x

Looking for a great read? A great waiting-for-a-train read…a great stuck-in-hospital read…a great going-on-holiday read…a great in-a-waiting-room read…a great I-want-to-relax read…

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The Sarcastic Mother’s Holiday Diary

by Anne E Thompson

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To Hong Kong

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To Hong Kong

Last Friday was a busy day. I had to sort the poultry (new eggs safely in incubator with instructions left for family to top-up the water regularly) then I took Mum to Lunch Club. It wasn’t my turn to cook, and plenty of people had turned up to help, so I left the termly letter and came home – because I needed to pack. I was also feeling quite tired, because since I decided to join Husband on his business trip to Hong Kong, I had been adjusting my clock.

Hong Kong is 7 hours ahead of UK, and our trip was for a few days. That’s not very long to adjust to a big time difference, and my body is fairly rubbish at adjusting to anything these days. Gone are the days when I would arrive in a country, set my watch to the correct time zone, and after one day of feeling wonky, I would be fine. Now I find my body is exhausted at all the wrong times, and simply refuses to go to sleep when it’s put to bed – which often results in a 3-day migraine. Bit of a waste of a trip abroad. So, I decided, in my wisdom, that I would adjust gradually, an hour a day, until I was 4 hours ahead of UK time. Then I would stop, because being 3 hours behind Hong Kong time wouldn’t matter, I wasn’t planning on meeting anyone, I could just get up late.

It all started rather well. The dog wasn’t too impressed when I appeared in the kitchen at 3am, but other than that it was fine. I rather liked being awake before the rest of the world, having a couple of hours to myself before the family got up and set off for work, going for walks in the clear morning air. No one was at home during the day, so I kept my meals on ‘Anne-Time’: lunch at 10:30, dinner at 3pm (the rest of the family had to reheat theirs when they got home) bed at 7pm. Actually, the going to bed bit was quite difficult, as I think I possibly have the noisiest family in the world.

Anyway, I thought it was all going well, until the day we travelled. We had 21:50 flights – that was the middle of the night Anne-Time. I took ear-plugs and eye-mask, and tried to nap in the lounge after we’d gone through security (we were travelling posh-class as Husband was working and I was on airmiles). But it was way too noisy and bright. Honestly, airports could save a lot of money on their electricity bill if they cut out the awful music (Wham! They were playing Wham for goodness sake) and dimmed the lights a bit.

I made it onto the plane (picture ‘walking dead’) and as soon as they allowed us to remove seat belts, I settled down for the night. I did sleep for a few hours, which is unusual for me, and then woke at 7am Hong Kong time. The rest of the plane was asleep – I don’t know why more people don’t change time zones before they travel. Odd that.

Hong Kong airport seemed nice. It was well-organised, and immigration was efficient and quick. The washrooms were clean and everything was automated. The taxi rank was easy to find, and we were told to get a red taxi (not a green one) as we were going to Kowloon. A man was translating, so we only needed the English address (in China, you need to have the address in Mandarin if you take a taxi).

The ride from the airport took about half an hour. I’ve visited Hong Kong a few times, but not for a few years. The first impression as you leave the airport is of towers of apartments, there are loads of them. There are posh towers, and new ones, and towers that look as if they’re waiting to be demolished. And trees – there are a lot of trees, growing up the mountainsides, giving everything a green border. But there are no parks, no fields, no gardens – in fact, no flat spaces at all. (There are parks, but you don’t see them from the taxi.) All you see is apartment blocks and office towers and trees, perched on the sides of the hills – which are very accurately called ‘peaks’. They are not the Sound-of-Music gentle slopes, they are great rocks, lumps of granite, jutting up towards the sky, with water lapping to the edges.

Once you arrive on Kowloon, there is more flat land. That’s because the land has been reclaimed. We arrived at our hotel, The Ritz Carlton. All very posh.

I waited on a sofa while Husband checked in, and a man (tall, good-looking, European – in case you were wondering) came and offered me some green tea. It was cold. I then worried whether beautifully presented cup of green tea would make me ill, and interrogated man about whether the water was boiled, and whether ice had been added. Decided to risk it. It didn’t taste like green-tea, it tasted like lemon tea. Perhaps it’s the American equivalent. I didn’t like it much.

We went to the room and unpacked a bit (only a bit, because there are hardly any drawers in the room). We let the family know we had arrived safely, then set off in search of dinner.

All the restaurants in the hotel are hideously expensive – the cheapest meal being a burger for £40. Not really our style. Beneath the hotel is a shopping mall, called Elements, and there were places to eat there. The prices of the restaurants were comparable to English prices, which is probably loads more than a traditional restaurant in Hong Kong, but I prefer to eat in ‘safe’ familiar places – always hard to juggle ‘experience’ with dodgy health.

We ate at a restaurant called The Night Market which is a Taiwanese restaurant. We had dumplings and soup and noodles. The dumplings were wonderful. It was all very clean, and they brought water with the menus, but we didn’t drink it as it was probably tap water, and we had tall glasses of local beer (much nicer).

We walked around a little, but it’s the beginning of the rainy season, and we were tired, so we went back to the room fairly soon.

I will tell you more another time. Thank you for reading.

Hope you have enough sleep this week.
Take care,
Love, Anne x

If you enjoyed this, why not read my latest book: The Sarcastic Mother’s Holiday Diary?

I have sold lots already – if you have read a copy please could you be very kind and put a review on Amazon? If you haven’t read it yet, the UK link is below.

cockerel and hen

Chicken Choices

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I can hardly believe it’s May already. Many of the spring flowers are already over, though the bluebells are holding on – just! My garden is at that wonderful stage of every weed going completely bananas, and growing much faster than I can pull them out.

The animals are also going bananas – especially the foxes, and I have some bad news to report. When we arrived home from Norfolk, I let the chickens out of their cages again so they could roam around the garden during the daytime…and I think there must be fox cubs somewhere near…and I hope they are happy. I am left with one cockerel and two hens.

I therefore decided that I would hatch some more eggs. As the cockerel is related to the hens (mother and sister) I thought it would be best to buy some more eggs on Ebay. I’m not sure that the morality of the situation matters, but the hatchlings might not be very healthy with such closely related parents.

I then had fun choosing which eggs to buy. The chickens I currently own have at least some Maran in them, as the hens are dark and the cockerel has lovely chestnut neck feathers. However, Marans were bred initially for cock-fighting in France, and some of those fighting genes are still in evidence today, so I decided to try a different breed.

I ordered three different types of eggs. Some are Cream Legbars, which will lay beautiful blue eggs. It’s an English breed, and a cross between Barred Plymouth Rocks (a speckly grey bird) and Brown Leghorns (a brown bird). The adults should be a sort of pale brown, slightly speckled bird – but the main thing is those lovely blue eggs, so I do hope some are female. These chickens were ‘designed’ in Cambridge, and the hatchlings are different, so the males have a white spot on their heads, so I’ll know immediately if I have some females. (Usually, sexing chicks is pretty impossible!) I will keep them all, whatever the gender, I’ll simply be depressed if they’re all male…

I also bought some Leghorn eggs. These are big white eggs. The birds came from Italy, they are big white chickens, and sometimes their crown sort of flops over, which I think makes them look very Italian!

Finally, I ordered some Speckled Sussex eggs. These chickens are brown, and speckled (no surprise there) and they have been in England for years, are a very old breed. They lay a pale brown egg — which is smaller than I was expecting (so I hope the seller didn’t send me bantam eggs — that’s the trouble with Ebay, you can never be sure).

Well, the eggs arrived, delivered by the postman with a letter from the bank and a leaflet advertising new windows. They were packaged quite differently (the eggs, not the letters) — some in a polystyrene box, some in egg boxes surrounded by either straw or scrumpled newspaper within another, bigger box — but they all survived. The people selling the Sussex and Leghorns added a few extra eggs (perhaps because they were packed less securely). I actually have more eggs than I want, but I don’t know which ones will survive, so I will put them all in the incubator. They have to settle for a day first, pointy end down, then they go into the incubator and I just have to wait 3 weeks. If I have 18 cockerels I shall be annoyed.

I would like one of the outside hens to go broody, so she can raise the chicks for me. I am leaving her eggs to encourage those broody hormones. So far, she has about 20 eggs – which she just keeps looking at – no sign of broody at all! Maybe she remembers the trouble that chicks are, and has figured out what makes them hatch (I can relate to her feelings of not wanting the hassle of more children, honestly I can). Am hoping she changes her mind. I will let you know. If the  hen goes broody, I can then give her the  hatchlings from the incubator, and even though the eggs she’s sitting on are infertile, she will hopefully accept the chicks…hopefully.

Hope you have a good week.

Take care,
Love, Anne x

A Walk to Cley

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A Walk to the Beach at Cley

We looked at a map (why did no one think of doing this before?) and realised that it is pretty much impossible to walk to the sea from Blakeney. I received feedback about my ‘by the sea’ cottage. The best way to reach the sea, is to walk along the road to Cley Next the Sea.

We set off with the dog and a supply of overly thin nappy-sacks that Husband had bought instead of doggy bags. Road was horribly busy. The dog always poops at inconvenient times, and the walk along the busy road was enhanced no end by also carrying flimsy bag of dog excrement.

Cley Next the Sea (I still cannot cope with the lack of preposition) is a pretty town with a windmill, tiny shops, and a narrow road that winds through the centre. The narrow road was very busy on Easter Saturday.

We stopped for ice-creams at what is possibly the slowest place ever to buy an ice-cream (very nice ice-creams though, if you have 3 hours to spare). While we waited, a small white VW approached the bend in the road, made a weird noise, and died. Instant traffic-jam.

Jay went and spoke to the driver, offering to push the car to a safer spot. A bolshy woman in large Range Rover behind the VW, honked loudly on her horn (perhaps she thought the VW driver had simply stopped for a chat). I went to speak to the Range Rover driver, to explain the VW was broken rather than incompetent. Driver of Range Rover rather rude to me. I slipped into ‘school-teacher-very-posh-you don’t mess-with-me’ voice (you never lose the ability) and very politely ground her to mincemeat. Family impressed by my telling-off abilities, even when holding flimsy pink bag of poop. (Actually, to be strictly honest, I think I had binned the poop by this point.)

I then went to save Bea, who was attempting to stop traffic from whizzing round blind bend where males were pushing car, whilst also holding 3 ice-cream cones, and a German Shepherd dog intent on snarling at a small white poodle.

Eventually, small VW was safely positioned in a side road, dog was back with me, ice-creams returned to owners, and bolshy Range Rover had driven off. As we left, we saw a coach approach the bend, which it couldn’t navigate due to a small VW being in the way…and all the traffic ground to a halt again. We left—someone else could solve that one.

We found the path to the beach. The beach is shingle, has a shipwreck in the sea, and has heaps of lobster pots and a few fishing boats. We walked towards Blakeney, but there wasn’t time to walk all the way to where the seals were—maybe next time.

Thanks for reading about our Easter trip, it was rather sad to leave Norfolk and drive home. Hope you have a lovely day.
Take care,
Love, Anne x

If you enjoyed this, why not read my travel book: The Sarcastic Mother’s Holiday Diary? Available from an Amazon near you, UK link is below (you can read it for free if you have a kindle).

Anne E Thompson has written several novels, available from bookshops and Amazon. She also writes a weekly blog — describing her travels, her animals, and life in general — why not sign up to follow her blog today?
anneethompson.com

Lazy Days in Norfolk

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Continuing our Easter holiday diary…

Wells-Next-the-Sea

After attempting (and failing) to walk to the coast from Blakeney, we decided to drive to Wells-Next-the-Sea—another name with no preposition, but we coped. We parked amongst pine trees and walked over the hill to the sea.

There was a row of pretty beach huts, and we borrowed the porch of one to eat our picnic, while looking at the beach. Wells-Next-the-Sea has a lot of beach—miles of it.

Dogs are allowed on the beach to the left of the steps, so we left mother dozing on the beach hut steps, and wandered off towards the dunes. In the distance, we could see a digger, dredging the river (family commented that in Norfolk, people take their sandcastles very seriously, and perhaps we should invest in a digger too, to keep up).

We walked for a long way. After a while, we stopped to rest in the sand-dunes, feeling the warm sun, listening to the waves. Two seconds later, Emm was bored, so took the dog into the distance for a walk. We wanted to leave, so sent Jay after him. Jay never came back (probably forgot what he had gone for). Husband then decided to go and tell them to come back – but he got side-tracked too, so I left him and walked back to sleepy mother.

Wells-Next-the-Sea is a lovely beach if you like lots of sand, but you need determination if you plan to reach the sea. It has a very nice car-park, with toilets and cafes and a shop selling clothes you will never wear except on holiday. Some people danced in the car-park. It was a lovely place to visit (I cannot explain the dancing).

 

Tea in Cromer

When I was child, we visited Cromer most weekends in the summer. We camped, so I pretty much hated Cromer. However, now I’m all grown up, I can see that it is actually a very nice town, and the sort of place where I too might choose to take children. (Not to camp though, I have promised myself I will never have to sleep in a tent, ever again.)

We booked afternoon tea at The Grove guesthouse in Overstrand Road. It costs £14 per person, and is a very generous tea, with sandwiches and cakes and scones. The fruit cake was my favourite. They also provide boxes, so you can take home the leftovers (trust me, you will have leftovers).

After tea, we walked down the steps by the lighthouse to the beach. The lighthouse is short and fat, and very disappointing if you are a child and expect lighthouses to be tall and slender and standing on rocks with the waves crashing. Cromer lighthouse is on a grassy cliff, and not even particularly near the sea. (As I said, there was a lot about Cromer that disappointed me as a child.)

We walked, past bright beach huts and wooden breakwaters, past rusty tractors attached to fishing boats, towards the setting sun. The tall church tower looms above the town. We walked to the pier, and stood, looking up at the cliffs and wondering why the dominant hotel facing the sea is called the ‘Paris Hotel’.

The beach at Cromer is lovely. So too is the town (if you’re not camping). I stole some snippets of the town for my book, Counting Stars—why not read a copy? The link is below.

Hope you have a nice day.
Take care,
Love, Anne x

Counting Stars is an exciting novel, set in the near-future. One of the children (a bolshy teenager) pretty much sums up my own childhood feelings towards Cromer…You can buy a copy from an Amazon near you, UK link below:

Morston Seal Trip

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Morston Seal Trip

We’re staying in a house in Blakeney, and at the pretty quayside, there are advertisements for boat trips to see the seals. We phoned the number displayed, and booked a trip. We were then told that we needed to be at Blakeney Quay an hour prior to departure to pay, and then drive to Morston (a couple of miles away) where the boat departs from. I felt the posters in Blakeney were rather misleading, as they imply that the boats leave from Blakeney quay, but they don’t.

We followed the instructions, and arrived at Morston quay in good time (not easy with six people). We then took longer than expected to find our boat, as several different companies depart from Morston. Our boat—Bishops—was a muddy walk away. The boats can only leave on certain tides, so the times change about an hour every day.

We climbed aboard the boat, leaving a trail of muddy footsteps. The skipper was mopping as we walked—which meant that all the seats were wet—but we pretended we didn’t mind having wet bottoms, as this seemed like a fishermen thing to do.

The boat was wet and windy, but it was a lovely sunny day. Unattractive beany hats which had been shoved into pockets were pulled out and jammed onto heads as we drew near to the sea and the breeze became a wind. The estuary was studded with a thousand colourful buoys, and water birds stalked the sand dunes. People were holding onto the sides, and staring across the water, everyone unsure if we would actually see seals.

We rounded Blakeney Point, and there they were, like fat boulders lying in the sunshine. There were grey seals (the most common) and common seals (which are, bizarrely, less common). Every so often a seal would move, humping its body awkwardly to a new position. They were unperturbed by the queue of boats full of tourists snatching photos on their phones—they didn’t even look at us.

The most exciting views (I thought) were the glimpses of seals in the water—the flash of a Labrador-like head, the lazy dive under the waves. There was a long line of tourist boats, and we circled a few times, watching, before going back to the quay.

The trips can be booked in various places (though they all leave from Morston). It cost £13 for adults for a one-hour trip. It was worth it. Wear old clothes.

Hope you have a good day.
Take care,
Love, Anne x

If you enjoyed this, why not read my new book?: The Sarcastic Mother’s Holiday Diary (You can read it for free if you have a kindle.)
Available from an Amazon near you, UK link below:

Walk to Cley Next the Sea

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Walk to Cley Next the Sea

We were staying in Blakeney for a week. Mostly, this was lovely, though a couple of things were unexpected.

The quay at Blakeney is very pretty, with a few boats, and views of the river meandering through the salt marshes. It’s a wonderful place for watching birds, and even has a duck pond (my kind of place). The duck pond is surrounded by a tall electric fence, which keeps the ducks safe from foxes. The pond was full of exotic ducks (much prettier than the ducks on my own pond) but also had a lot of wild mallards who flew in for a holiday. There were ducklings too—but not for long, as the seagulls swooped in and ate them.

Anyway, next to this, leading away from the quay, is a footpath, which looks as if it’s heading for the sea. When I booked the house, I thought Blakeney was next to the sea. Every day, a long line of hikers set off to walk this footpath, complete with woolly hats and leather boots and binoculars (for bird spotting). We decided to join them (though we don’t own binoculars, and my family is way too noisy for bird-spotting).

The pathway bends towards the coast, tantalising you with sand dunes in the distance. You walk along the raised footpaths, above the boggy salt marshes, and then, just as you feel you’re almost at the sea, the pathway curves back, away from the beach. You can see dunes, and fishing boats, and hear the whoosh of waves, but you never actually reach the beach because a river winds alongside the path, cutting between the town and the beach.

Instead, you pass acres of rushes, golden brown and hissing in the breeze, tall as a man; and fields of cattle grazing, and the river—green brown and sluggish, sitting in a valley of mud with long-legged birds busy on the banks.

Eventually, the pathway takes you to Cley Next the Sea. (People in Norfolk have an aversion to prepositions, which I don’t really understand.) As you approach the town, there is a windmill. You can admire the scenery, and breathe the salty air, and discuss (at length) why there is no ‘to’ in the name, and what it is like to sleep in “a coffin” (see previous blog, Bea was not impressed with her bunk-bedded child’s room…)

We had drinks in the garden of The George, and then we walked back to Blakeney. But we never actually saw the sea.

As we returned to the house, we noticed several signs on Blakeney quay, advertising boat trips to see the seals. We decided to book one, and hoped that unlike our walk to the sea, we might actually see some—though if I’m honest, I expected to see tiny black dots in the distance which someone would tell me were seals. I’ll tell you about the trip tomorrow.

Thank you for reading. Hope your day is not disappointing.

Take care,
Love, Anne x

Anne E Thompson has written several novels, available from bookshops and Amazon. She also writes a weekly blog — describing her travels, her animals, and life in general — why not sign up to follow her blog today?
anneethompson.com

Trip to Blakeney, Norfolk

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This year, we decided to go away for Easter. Usually we stay at home, and I attend roughly a million different church services over the Easter weekend, and then on Bank Holiday Monday, I spend all morning making scone dough, and all afternoon cooking scones and serving them to about 90 people who come to our house for a country walk and cream tea. It’s usually exhausting, and I love doing it. However, last year I was aware that all my children, who have grown up, returned home for the Easter weekend, and I spent the whole weekend not seeing them. Which seemed wrong. So this year, we decided to go away.

I booked a house with HomeAway—an online cottage rental service which I have never used before, so it was all a little scary. However, we needed a 5 bedroomed house, with an enclosed garden, that would allow me to take a dog, so there weren’t many options. I found a house in Blakeney, and we loaded the car with the dog and my mother and a lot of bags, and off we set.

The drive took about 6 hours, because the Dartford crossing was terrible and we stopped on the way for lunch at Castle Acre. We found a pub—The George and Dragon — next to the road, and the dog sat under the table, and the food was okay.

We arrived at the house. The last house I had booked was bit of a disaster (it had sewage coming out of the drains) so the family was slightly worried about what we would find. The parking place was outside the house, on a blind bend, so that wasn’t great. But the key-safe was where the instructions said, and the key fitted the door (these are all things I worry about) and we went inside.

The downstairs was great. There was a little hallway, with stairs lined with bookshelves (excellent start). A through-room led to a long kitchen, and it all looked clean, and there were hot-cross buns and local beer and a tea tray waiting for us, which was lovely. There was also a tiny sitting room, with a door handle that fell off when we opened it. But we could manage without a door handle, so no worries there. Then we went upstairs.

 

 


The top floor had a large room and a bathroom, with lovely views across fields. We (I) decided that Emm could have that room, when he arrived, as he was taking a holiday from work. On the floor below, were 4 other rooms. We took a room with an en suite bathroom, Jay took a double room, Mum took a twin room. Which left the remaining room for Bea, who was arriving at the weekend. It was a child’s room. With bunk-beds. And Mr Men books. I was worried about this. Bea (works in a posh bank in the city) wasn’t really used to rooms like this (not since she was 5 years old, anyway). The boys assured me it would be fine. But I was worried.

Thanks for reading. I’ll tell you more about our trip tomorrow.

Take care,
Love, Anne x

Anne E. Thompson has written several novels, which are available in bookshops and Amazon.
Anne writes a weekly blog – why not sign up to follow?
anneethompson.com

 

If you enjoyed this, you will love my new book: The Sarcastic Mother’s Holiday Diary. It will make you laugh, and you can read it for free if you have a kindle.
Available from an Amazon near you, UK link below:

An Easter Story

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The Sword Pierced Soul

by Anne E Thompson

  “I watched my son die today. My beautiful boy, beaten, battered and left to die. And my heart broke. I held my cloak close and I remembered the weight of him as a babe, like a boulder on my hip, wriggling to be free, to run and jump and climb.

Those legs will run no more.
Those limbs, I was so proud when they grew. I remember when he grew as tall as me, then taller even than Joseph. I remember watching him, stretched out as he ate, those long limbs seemed to go on forever.

“I grew him,” I used to think with pride. Those limbs will not sprawl relaxed in my home ever again.
I watched his hands, the hands that used to pat me cheekily on the head when he’d grown tall.

Those strong hands which laboured with wood, which helped me carry heavy loads, which lifted young children playfully. They are no longer strong. I saw them bang nails through the flesh, felt that I heard the sound of bone shattering over the thump of the hammer, heard his ragged breath as they forced the cross upright. And I wondered if I too might die.

But I watched. I am his mother and I would not leave him alone. When they tried to take me home, when they told me to shield my eyes, avert my gaze, I did not. For he was my son. I would never leave him alone, not at such an anguished hour of need.

Others watched. Some women were there, terrified and hanging back. Not me, I am his mother. I stood with John, where he could see me. What could they do to me that was worse than this?

Some watched who hated him. They mocked and spat and called abuse. It could not hurt him now, I thought, let them shout.

“He trusts in God,” they called, “Let God save him now,” and they laughed, even as he died they laughed.

Yet even God deserted him by the end and that was hardest to bear. He called out with a loud shout, asking why God had turned from him.
“My God,” he called in anguish, “why have you forsaken me?”

But I was there. I did not leave. I saw them crucify him, naked upon a cross. No mother wants to see her grown son naked, but still I did not look away. I was there at the beginning, I would stay with him until the end.

The soldiers took his clothes, for fabric is costly and even that of a criminal should not go to waste. Most they tore and shared between them but not his tunic. They cast lots for that, not wanting to spoil something precious. Yet my son was precious and they destroyed him.

        It began last night. They woke me from my sleep and warned me there was trouble. He had been arrested, taken from a meal with his friends and questioned by the temple authorities. They feared the invaders, so he was then referred to a court of Godless law, a place that feared no God.

They told me that he was scourged, beaten with whips that removed chunks of flesh as they struck. He was mocked and abused, then brought to this place.

I came, stumbling through streets full of people, full of noise and smells and fear and hatred. I came to this place, this Godforsaken hill beyond the city wall and I saw my son, my boy, diminished, shrunken somehow.

I saw that what they had told me was true, smelt the repugnant stink of excrement mingle with the metallic stench of blood. I heard the shouts of abuse, the curses of the guards, the screams from the prisoners, the wails from friends. And him, like an oasis of calm amidst the turmoil, suffering but at peace.

And he saw me. Those dark eyes that as a baby had watched me intently when he fed. Those eyes that twinkled merrily when he teased me and became serious when he wanted to explain something important. Those eyes, red rimmed with exhaustion now, turned to me. Even hanging there, with parched mouth and dried lips, he spoke to me. His voice was hoarse, for he had refused the wine they offered, but I heard him well. A mother knows her child’s voice. I stood with John and my son told me that this was to be my son now and he was to care for me as a mother. Even in his torment he cared for me, fulfilled his duty as my son.

Still I would not leave. Then it ended. The sky had turned as black as my world and he drew his last breath. It was finished.

Those who had mocked became silent, some cried, some beat their breasts in despair. The blackness of the sky frightened them and many fled, wondering at what they had done.

Then I left, I let them lead me away. My soul was broken and my heart beat even though I bid it stop. My boy was gone, my firstborn, special baby, was no more. I carried that knowledge like a rock within me, I would have rather died in his place. How can I live, continue with my life knowing he is gone? There would be no more sunshine or laughter, nothing matters now. The core of me was gone. I could not even cry.

Afterwards, I could not rest and I heard strange stories. They said the soldiers pierced his side, to check there was no life in him. His blood had separated so they took him down, a solid corpse that had no life. A man came and took the body, they said they followed and knew where he lay, in a tomb that was guarded. They told me of strange things, of the temple curtain torn in two, of dead men walking and boulders breaking open.

I do not know. I only know my boy is gone. That is all that matters.

It should not have been like this. It was so recently that people praised his name, sang and danced before him, treated him like a king. It should not have ended like this.

And yet, I recall a song, it comes persistently to mind, sung often in the synagogue. It speaks of one forsaken by God in his time of need, scorned by many. He belonged to God from before he was born, then suffered at the hands of many. They sung of bones poured out like water, a heart of melted wax, that is how my boy would have felt. They sung of hands and feet pierced like his and enemies gloating over him. They sang of lots being cast for clothing and of God’s ultimate victory. They sung of remembering him for ever, not just now but families of every nation, even those presently unborn. For he has done it.

Is this my son’s song? Were the words written for him?

He spoke of his death often, he tried to warn me that he would die. But not like this, not before my own time has come. No mother should bury her child, it goes against what is natural and right. Though, he showed no fear, he knew what his end would be. And he told me there was more.

As I turn now to sleep, I wonder at his words. Will he truly return somehow and will I know? Has he finished what he was sent to do?”

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        If Mary was a young teenager when she learned she was pregnant (which would fit with the age girl’s became betrothed in those days) then when Jesus died aged thirty-three, she would have been about forty-seven. How does a woman of that age cope with the things she was forced to witness and how much would she have understood at the time?
        I am about her age, I have sons, contemplating their dying is too horrible for words. I am sure she loved her boy as much as we love ours.

           Crucifixion was a ghastly way to die. We learn in the Bible that Jesus, who never sinned, who never did anything wrong, died to save the world. What does that mean? You can learn more at:https://anneethompson.com/how-to/378-2/

           However, many people were crucified, some probably unjustly accused. So is it the death that was important or was it that God became separate? I think that this is the key issue here, the part of Jesus that was God left him. That was more terrible than crucifixion. That is what each of us deserves and what we do not have to suffer if we choose to come to God. If we want to know God, we can, even if that means changing our minds. You may not believe in God but God believes in you.

       The song which Mary recalled in the story was Psalm 22. It has some striking similarities to the account of Jesus’ crucifixion. It was written about one thousand years before the event. (wow)
       It begins: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
       It finishes: “…..future generations will be told about the Lord. They will proclaim his righteousness to a people yet unborn- for he has done it.”

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 More stories, articles and poems at: http://www.anneethompson.com

Anne E. Thompson is an author of several novels and one non-fiction book. You can find her work in bookshops and on Amazon.
Thank you for reading.
anneethompson.com