Walking through Cromer I found some narrow streets of old houses to admire. Earlier in my trip on the Ridgeway the flint on the outside face of churches and houses had been split to show the grey blue interior of the nodules. Here the pebbles of flint used in the walls were unbroken, rounded and often painted white, although most buildings were of brick. Leaving Cromer a kilometre or so behind, I stood on the cliff top, looking back at the pleasure pier and people walking their pooches on the beach, the dogs chasing lime green balls or each other. Above me (and a golf course) a red kite twisted and turned its tail feathers and wings to remain stable in the buffeting mind. Later I saw a kestrel hovering, my first of this trip. Lost in my observations I missed a turn down to the beach and continued to Overstrand village along the top of the crumbling cliffs. I dropped down to the beach huts to rejoin the coastal trail, only to be directed back up the cliff by an acorn symbol, National Trail sign shortly after. For the rest of the day the path alternated between a cliff top route and one along the beach.
Information signs on the sea defences seemed to provide contradictory information. Some suggesting it was futile to try to stop erosion of the cliffs, that protecting one section merely moved the problem elsewhere. Much effort had been expended in the past to protect the coast by building long concrete walls or steps at the top of the beach, or installing wooden "groynes" stretching out to sea to halt the lateral movement of sand along the coast and capture any coming from the other direction. Wooden groynes had also been installed near the top of the beach parallel to the cliffs to break up the waves, a practice I had not seen before. Around the Bacton Gas Terminal another sign explained that a new approach was being trialled, dumping large amounts of sand on the beach which had been dredged from the sea bed. Waves then expend their energy redistributing the new sand rather than attacking the cliffs I suppose.
Several villages were visited today, the trail taking a particularly intricate pathway around Mundesley for no special purpose, except maybe to pass a café where I had a bagel for lunch. Admittedly I did loose where I was actually meant to go and so maybe missed the museum my guidebook recommended. At Eccles, the village consisted of small, cute bungalows of various ages and designs. I felt maybe they had been built as holiday homes but had become permanent residences for those wanting a quiet place by the sea. Sea Palling had a café where I purchased a coffee and some donuts, individually cooked for me with a choice of sugars. I enjoyed them looking at a stall for buckets and beach balls opposite while listening to the whirr and machine pronouncements of an adjacent amusement arcade to and from which people came and went. On the wall the height of the 1953 flood was marked, so high its effect must have been devastating but maybe a sign of the future with global warming.
As the afternoon matured the cliffs gave way to dunes which I followed either on the beach or on a track beside farmland. I was planning to camp in the dunes somewhere after Sea Palling. I try to be discrete, wild camping without anyone knowing, but as I was looking for a suitable spot with the light fading, a man with two friendly, gentle greyhounds guessed what I was doing and wished me a good night. Walking around with a big pack, away from any villages, as night is falling makes it easy to work out that I am looking for a place to camp.
I found a place to pitch, hidden from the main footpath among the marram grass, not sheltered, but not too exposed. My tent is now energetically flapping in the wind, so I hope no pegs come out overnight. I listen to the wind's noise in the grass feeling comfortably warm in my sleeping bag, but knowing I have to go out in the cold one more time to answer a "call of nature".
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