All ashore who’s going ashore

Pottering down a slow moving river, mooring gently up to watch the sunset whilst listening to the sound of the geese as they land for the night, perhaps ambling across a fen to have a pint and a meal in a quiet pub ….

None of this happens in the Norfolk Broads …

I knew my fantasy of a rural, water-borne retreat was in trouble as we waited at the boat yard for an ageing gent to walk extremely slowly to the back of his shed to fetch us lifejackets and the couple behind us held a conversation about the size of their boat and where all the beers were going to be stashed. They had to shout, which only made their east London accents more pronounced, because whilst the wife was behind us in the doorway, her large husband was still in their van parked about 300 yards away.

The beautiful network of rivers and dykes which form the northern Broads is more like a Butlins holiday camp afloat. Within our first hours we passed several ‘party’ boats, the clink of bottles underlining the shouting and laughter. A few parties were fancy dress … pink pirates, calypso and even vikings (oddly, their costumes were extremely detailed and well prepared).

We ventured to the top of the River Bure and into Wroxham, a nerve wracking melee of boats, yachts and day cruisers confined into a small space. We beat a hasty retreat and, knowing we had food and water enough, we sought out a quieter place in the prettier waterside village of Horning. As we aimed for a suitably large mooring space opposite a pub, a PA system blared and the ‘pub entertainer’ appeared in the beer garden dressed as an extremely camp pirate and proceeded with a drawled out version of Dolly Parton’s Nine to Five. We moved on, around the corner to the quieter but suggestively named Cockshoot Dyke. If the wind blew in the right direction we could still hear the pub singer handing out pearls of wisdom such as ‘And as my old nan used to say, its nice to be important, but more important to be nice.’ However, after one final encore of Hi Ho Silver Lining, he said goodnight and the river settled into solitude for the evening. A nearly full moon rose over the opposite bank, the geese gave voice and a mist rose from the banks. Wonderful. We stood out on the bank and just looked at it.

I won’t go on about the boat. Or the boating. After 30 minutes instruction, we were in charge of a big barge of several tonnes of plastic and metal, its steering ponderous and its stern liable to swing out and take out a passing canoeist if you drop your guard. I know that putting yourself outside your comfort zone is a healthy activity, but doing it a few times an hour each day of your holiday is a bit rich. Stern on mooring (where you back your boat into a jetty) is a nerve-jangling affair with the boat obeying some salty seafaring version of the laws of physics that bears no resemblence to anything familiar or predictable. Simple mooring up usually involves a roaring of engines, frantic rushing about with ropes and not a small amount of terse language. And some ominous crashing noises. What tends to happen shortly after we have finally tied the boat up and lay panting on the floor is a frail-looking old couple glide their even larger boat into the space alongside with the merest whisper of engines.

One evening we moored up at Fleet Dyke, amongst the Essex and Londoner accents and bbqs. A lovely spot out in the classic Broads with acres of fens around us. Walking along the river-bank we stopped to talk to a large Londoner about avoiding Great Yarmouth and whilst we were talking a very large otter hopped out of the ditch a few feet away from us and loped into the reeds of the river. They are amazingly large in real life and extremely beautiful.

In amongst the chaos and panic, there are some very wonderful moments here on the Broads.  Watching the super-moon over Acle bridge as the mists rose in the fields all around us and the sky burned out the last traces of the day. Settling in for the night moored near an abbey, the moon yet again lighting up the smooth waters of the river. Trundling slowly across Barton Broad in the early hours. A very beautiful part of Britain which, if you ignore the crowds or find your way around them, can reward your perseverance with small, quiet moments of wonder.