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Designed & Maintained By Carol Gingell

Back in the dim and distant past of 1968, myself & three friends were pondering where to go on our summer holiday. Alan the eldest suggested going to the Norfolk Broads, where he had been once before, saying that it was a very varied holiday. He reiterated that you were on a boat cruising, there was a seaside resort at Great Yarmouth with an active nightlife, the waterside was veritably littered with pubs and you were also outside in some wonderful countryside. The rest of the party, or should I now say crew, had never been to East Anglia before, so we plumped for it. A decision I have since been eternally grateful for.

We then started to pore over brochures to select a boat, by now the crew had been increased to five as we had been persuaded to take Glenn’s younger brother Alan who was only sixteen. We finally decided on a 27 foot Elysian which would sleep five, if the brothers shared a double bed. The boats’ name was Langwith Avocet number N 524 which we hired through Bradbeer‘s Agency from a Boatyard in Horning called Norfolk Knights. Boat booked, deposit paid, we settled down to wait for the last week in August and the first in September.

The day of departure finally dawned the 23rd August. We all lived in an area just south of Manchester, four of us living in a place called Altrincham, in Cheshire. Travel to Norfolk in those days from I suppose anywhere, was a long drawn out affair and we were to travel by overnight coach from Manchester, a journey that was to take in excess of 9 hours. Not many young people could afford cars in those days, indeed we all had motorbikes. At 7-30 pm on Friday evening we all assembled, complete with luggage, at our local railway station for the 8 mile journey into Manchester where, it was discovered, that young Alan had left his money at home. This of course enraged his brother who was bitterly complaining that this was a fine start to the holiday, “you are going to ruin everything and I didn’t want to bring you anyway”. I accompanied Alan home and then suitably funded returned to the station. This resulted in an hours curtailed drinking in Manchester, which was probably a good thing in light of travelling all through the night. Toilets on coaches were unheard of then. We alighted from the train and repaired to our favourite haunt in town, the Jazz Cellar of the Manchester Sports Guild. At about 10-00pm we arrived at the now long gone East St. Coach Station to begin our overnight journey. Of the journey itself I can remember little, we went I think to Sheffield and I remember stopping at a transport café at about three o’clock. That is all until we arrived outside Norwich Thorpe Station; I do not know what time it was, only that it was light. After a journey round Broadland dropping people off at various places, Stalham and Potter Heigham amongst others I seem to recall, we were finally dropped off, very bleary eyed, at the top of the road to Horning at about 7-30am. The adventure had begun.

We slowly trudged down the quiet country lane, dragging our bags, and a sight I will never forget met my eyes. We had arrived at the bend in the River Bure by the Swan Inn. It was a glorious summer morning; the mist was slowly rising from the river enveloping the varied craft on the water, swans swimming majestically about, the whole tranquil scene being only disturbed by the calling of a coot. I do not know how it affected the others, but, it has remained etched on my memory ever since. I had seen the Highlands of Scotland, the wild areas of North Devon & Cornwall, the Peak & the Lake Districts to name but a few, but had never come across such a peaceful scene as the one I was beholding now. Everything just seemed so well balanced.

We carried on to the boatyard, dumped our luggage and enquired about where we could obtain breakfast. We were advised to go to Wroxham, a short bus ride away. Back to the top of the road, through the quaint village of Horning and in no time the bus had whisked us to Wroxham or, as we soon found out, Roy’s Town. Now I grew up in a small market town and was used to all the small shops. My father was a fishmonger and for a time we lived above the shop, I acquired  the obvious nickname at school of fishy that has stuck ever since, so I was expecting the normal mix of varied shops all with different names all selling different wares. NOT SO WROXHAM. The majority of the crew, who had not been to Wroxham before, stood there - I believe the term is gobsmacked! There was Roy’s Butchers, Roy’s Bakers and I believe if we had looked hard enough we would have found Roy’s Candlestick Makers. We found somewhere to eat, not sure if it was Roy’s Café, but it probably was. Hard to believe but forty years later it is still the same, they even have a MacDonald’s in Roy’s now. We wandered around Wroxham, pausing on the bridge watching the Boats that were now sailing up and down the river and thinking in a few hours we would be doing the same. Suitably refreshed and in a very good mood, even after the long, virtually sleepless night, we made our way back to Horning just as the pubs were opening.  We had noted on the way out the New Inn and to this hostelry we promptly retired, being met by the landlord’s very pretty and extremely pleasant daughter. This was going to be one fantastic holiday, I thought, if all the girls in Norfolk looked like her.

After a few drinks it was time to saunter up to collect the boat. On arrival at the yard however, we were greeted by the news that the people who had it before had brought it back in such a state that it was going to take a very long time to prepare. Undaunted, we repaired back to the pub. For the next couple of hours the other customers of the New Inn must have thought we were tied to the public bar by elastic the number of times we rebounded back. Every time we went back to the boatyard we were told the same story, not ready. The people at the yard there were very apologetic, but it was hardly their fault. What the previous crew had done we never found out, but we vowed that when we brought it back it would be spotless as indeed it was. On the final visit of the day to the New Inn the Landlord himself joked that if all his patrons were like us he could retire to the Bahamas next year. Finally, slightly worse for wear having consumed much more than we had intended, only the sixteen year old was stone cold sober, we took possession of the boat. After a quick tuition session on the handling, Alan the elder was more than competent having had previous experience, we were off up the Bure in the direction of Wroxham.

This stretch of the Bure proved to be magnificent; there were glorious riverside houses with their manicured lawns complete with ducks or swans, most with expensive cruisers or yachts moored outside, seemingly another world from the everyday one we inhabited. Considering the alcohol intake we were doing surprisingly well, I had hesitantly taken the helm and after an initial period of trying to steer it like a car. I suppose most new people do, I found it surprisingly easy. After overcoming my initial fears that I was going to kill all the waterfowl that came across our path, I soon realised they could easily get out of the boat’s way. The only incident of note was a rowing boat with four kamikaze occupants who seemed intent on ramming us despite repeated attempts by us to avoid them. After a few choice words I think they got the message.

So, we sailed serenely on up the river, until we got to Wroxham Bridge. As I have said earlier, we were in Wroxham in the morning and had watched boats going to and fro and even under the bridge, but not from the river level and not from the deck of a boat about to go under it. All I could see from a distance was an aperture that appeared to be about two feet high, no way were we going to get through that. After being reassured that all we had to do was check the height of the boat (which we had been given at the yard) with the height under the bridge shown on the indicator beside it, I was still not convinced. Right then, here goes, the boat was pointed at the hole which I was convinced was getting smaller by the minute and I closed my eyes to await the sound of breaking fibreglass. Well! I needn’t have worried, we glided through with six inches to spare. I have often reflected since how lucky we were to have a crew member with previous experience; this first time under Wroxham Bridge might have proved tricky for complete novices. There were craft milling about everywhere, some turning round, yachts tacking and horns sounding, all in all a bit chaotic. But, this first hurdle safely negotiated, we cruised slowly up the meandering river Bure to reach Coltishall, our overnight stop, at about 5pm.

After a quick wash and brush up, tea consisting of salad, we were straight into the Rising Sun. A short time in there and we then went round the corner to the King’s Head. In those days it was not the up market restaurant it is today, just a country local. We got chatting to the landlady, who enquired where we came from as she recognised our accents. We told her the location, she said she herself came from the same area and her husband, who was out, but would be back shortly came from the same town as us. We had a splendid time talking to the landlord when he returned. Near the end of the evening Pete said he had to go back to the boat but would only be a short time, however, by the time we left he had not returned. On arrival back at the boat we found out why. He had been wearing a white Arran jumper; he was now sat in the forward cabin trying to remove half the river bank from it. He explained he had returned to the boat, got what he wanted, fastened up the canopy, turned round to step on the bank which, however, was not there as the boat had drifted out several feet and he had ended up in the river. Howls of laughter from the rest of us did nothing to appease him. The next morning two lines of finger marks were clearly visible running down the bank, just as seen in the cartoons featuring the roadrunner and the coyote.

Coltishall was the scene of my first and last swim in the waters of the broads.We awoke on the Sunday morning to glorious sunshine, without more of ado I donned a pair of trunks and dived straight in. The water was lovely and warm and I was having a great time until, on swimming up the side of a moored cruiser, I heard a gurgling noise and well, you can guess what appeared before my eyes. I think I was out of the water in two seconds flat. That was how it was in the 60’s; thankfully today we are more aware about the environment.

Few quick pints and off again, quick stop at the bridge stores at Acle for some provisions, then down the Bure towards Yarmouth where we arrived about 3 in the afternoon. Now what happened in the next hour or so may seem like pure fantasy, but I can assure you it did happen and there are photographs to prove it. We had moored up as I was assured against the tide and were watching the comings and goings on the water with interest, when I noticed that there was quite a crowd gathering. On enquiring what was going on was told just wait and all will be revealed. We had arrived in Yarmouth at, I would say, quite high water, well anyway I could not make out any visible current, and then the tide started to go out. I could not believe the speed at which it happened and the corresponding drop in the water level. This is what the crowd, which was now assuming the proportions of something seen at a football match, had come to witness.

Boats were coming down the river, attempting to moor, and were being swept about by the current, bashing into the boats already tied up. Howls of laughter were coming from the spectators assembled on the quayside, on asking a person who was obviously a regular at this event he explained that Sunday was the day to witness this, as changeover day was mostly Saturday in the afternoon and it took the novice crews until Sunday afternoon to arrive in Yarmouth. Obviously this did not always happen then due to tides, but it seems most of the locals new the tide tables by heart and turned out accordingly. Most of this was sorted out quite smoothly, as there were plenty of helpers to moor the boats, until a large cruiser which was attempting to turn got stuck fast across the river. The scene of carnage that resulted from this had to be seen to be believed; now there was nowhere for boats coming downstream to go and about three or four ran into this large cruiser which, I have found out this year with help from the knowledgeable people on the various Norfolk sites, was a Fulmar Class from Richardson’s of Stalham. I wish my friend Glenn had taken more photos of this incident. The only ones we have are just the one boat stuck across the river and not four or five. Eventually, with a bit of organisation, the boats coming down were held further up river by the Yacht Station and everybody got down to try to free the stricken boat. Again this will live long in my memory; ropes were taken off every available boat and at least fifty people were pulling and pushing, some even in the water on the Suspension Bridge Tavern side. Brute force prevailed, and with rousing cheers from the assembled crowd the offending vessel was tied up for the night.

Brute force prevailed, and with rousing cheers from the assembled crowd the offending vessel was tied up for the night. This incident, which I think typifies the British attitude to pull together in the face of adversity, pardon the pun, had generated a party atmosphere. People who half an hour earlier were complete strangers were laughing and joking with each other as though they were lifelong friends. The other point that comes to mind is that there was very little if no damage to the boats involved. Excitement over, we cooked a meal and then set off for our first visit to Great Yarmouth.

The first port of call was a pub on Fullers Hill, which would be the Crystal. A few drinks and a game of darts, then we were off down Regent Road to the front. Yarmouth turned out to be like a mini Blackpool, a far cry from the 19th Century when it was the premier herring port in the country. Still it was very pleasant strolling along the Promenade in the evening sun. We ended up in what appeared to be the liveliest place in the town, the New Beach on the corner of Regent Road and the Promenade; this was one of the then relatively new disco type pubs which, naturally, attracted all the young people. We had a couple of hours in there and then returned to the boat. I remember noting the curious inclined ramp leading up to the box girder bridge over the Bure which we had to walk round to get back to the boat. Even though it was now quite late, the moorings were still busy with people everywhere clambering over boats, the sound of laughing and joking interspersed with noisy whistling steam kettles as the returning revellers brewed up. It was a fact in those days most people did their drinking in pubs and the sight of people consuming alcohol on the boats from cans and bottles, the odd party four excepted, was almost unheard of. We were quite late in getting to sleep that night due to the continual thumps on the cabin roof as someone returned to their boat moored on the outside of us. We were moored against the quay and the boats were four abreast across the river, so it seemed everybody moored on the outside was using our boat as a stepping stone.

My First Broads Holiday - 1968

By David Campbell

Continued on next page

Casting off we set sail down the beautiful sylvan section of the Bure towards Wroxham, safely passing through the bridge with no fear at all this time. On entering Salhouse broad, where it had been decided we would breakfast, I always remember being chased around by the bailiff saying we would have to pay if we moored up. We cooked breakfast going round and round the broad, much to his annoyance. After a leisurely cruise back through Horning we arrived at Ranworth for lunch. Moor up and into the Maltsters, the bar is unbelievable being in the shape of a boat.