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Designed & Maintained By Carol Gingell

Monday already. After a leisurely breakfast, the beauty of being on a boat with no set itinerary, we departed for Norwich.  We had not travelled very far when the peace and tranquillity was well and truly shattered. On coming round a bend we were confronted with the largest ship I had ever seen, well that is what it looked like from our position low down in the water. It was bearing down on us fast, there was a man on the bow pointing his arm in the direction he wanted craft to go, we certainly did not argue unlike another vessel behind us who totally ignored his directions and was tossed about like a cork on the ocean before being unceremoniously rammed into the bank by the wash. Where the hell did that come from we all exclaimed, unaware of the fact that at that time Norwich was quite a thriving port with trade from all over Europe. I understand now there is no longer any trade such as this due, I believe, to the clearance under the A47 Postwick Viaduct. That is what those signs about not mooring on bends due to danger of being hit by coasters were for, someone said, thought they were what you put your cups on not bloody big ships.

With no further mishaps we arrived in Norwich and moored up near to Foundry Bridge, conveniently tying up to some large concrete bollards some kind soul had provided. After a pleasant stroll around the city we arrived back at the boat to be confronted by a rather irate gentleman who wasted no time in telling us that we had no right to be moored where we were, did we think that the bollards we were tied up to were for the use of fiddling little cruisers such as ours. We tried to calm him down by saying there were no signs telling anybody not to moor up here, all to no avail, he kept ranting on about a large vessel coming to moor here and if we did not move we would be crushed against the quay. We moved the boat and set off back in the direction of Brundall, all the time looking carefully for the large vessel that was supposed to berth in the spot we had occupied, needless to say it did not materialise. Just another case of somebody being officious when there was no need for it.

A leisurely cruise back to Brundall and again we were lucky enough to find our mooring next to the Yare Hotel unoccupied. After our evening meal, which had been another excellent repast, we were certainly not living on beans on toast and most main meals had been something quite substantial. The galley was very well laid out with everything you needed apart from a fridge, but they were to come in later years, so it was no real bother to do proper meals, we had even had a full roast dinner on a couple of occasions. I was relaxing on top of the boat on a glorious late summer evening with the sun shining, the birds singing and the water gently lapping on the side of the boat; again the recurring thought of the holiday came into my mind, the calm and tranquillity of the whole area.

My First Broads Holiday - 1968

By David Campbell

Another very pleasant evening was spent in the Yare Hotel, it was nearing closing time when one of us went to the bar and with the round ordered some bottles to take out, “what’s the rush” said the barman, “it’s a Bank Holiday we have got an extension you won’t be wanting these”. You can probably guess the reply, needless to say at the end of the evening we still had our take out. I am afraid to say that this resulted in quite a raucous singsong on the boat afterwards, going on until the early hours, luckily we had no others vessels moored near us although the Hotel staff might have been kept awake. This singing was probably the nearest we got to being antisocial in the whole fortnight, not really bad for five young lads. Another curious fact about this August Bank Holiday was that it was one of only two to ever fall in the month of September. Earlier in the decade the Holiday had been moved from the first week in August to the last, initially for a trial period which 1968 encompassed. The date was made permanent a few years later.

Tuesday was one day I really do not remember a lot about, it is strange how some events stick in your memory and others, no matter how hard you try to recall them will just not come back to you. I have a hazy recollection that we went to Reedham, up the New Cut and then back to Reedham via Berney Arms, thence back to Brundall. I cannot remember which way round we went either, i.e.to St Olaves or Berney first, all I am sure of is that at some point in the holiday we went up the New Cut and this is the only day I can fit it in.

The next day it was decided to go to Yarmouth. After an early breakfast I wandered off to the delightful waterside shop by way of Brooms boatyard which, although quite large, was nothing like the huge concern it is today. Essential supplies such as bread, tea and milk were purchased from the said emporium, which sadly when I last visited Brundall in 2009 had closed its’ doors, hopefully only temporarily. Another delightful cruise followed in the glorious early September sunshine, past Reedham and up the deserted part of the Yare near Berney Arms and into Breydon Water. This was quite busy with most craft seeming to be coming from the Yarmouth direction, probably due to the state of the tide. At this time there were three fixed bridges in Yarmouth to negotiate, the first when approaching from the Stracey Arms direction was the M & G N railway bridge, now demolished. Next came the Callender Hamilton box girder bridge, which has been replaced with the present structure, this in itself (the box Girder one) I found out in later years was a replacement for a suspension bridge, which I remember puzzling about at the time as to why the pub should be called the Suspension Bridge Tavern when this obviously was not of that type. Again, in the 1980’s, when looking into the past history of the North Quay area I discovered that this suspension bridge was in itself a replacement for an earlier one which had collapsed with a tragic loss of life in 1845. Finally Vauxhall Bridge, still there today. We were however too late to see the fourth bridge, the Breydon Viaduct which was a railway swing bridge located roughly where the Breydon Road Bridge is today, this had been demolished a few years earlier in 1963. After a smooth crossing we arrived in Yarmouth which was still quite busy and the only available free mooring was right under Vauxhall Bridge. We soon found out why, nobody it appeared was prepared to put up with the continual dripping of water coming off the girders. We hastily put up the canopy, there were a few shouts and the inevitable swear words as one or other of us got some of the water down the back of our necks and got on to the bank as quickly as possible.

I had decided I needed to go to the bank as funds were running decidedly low. Now, trying to get money out of a bank that was not your own branch and two hundred miles away to boot was not in those days the simple task it is today. No ATM machines, no debit cards, in fact electronic technology had just not been invented. I had in my possession a cheque book. I duly made out a cheque for the paltry sum, by today’s standards, of £5 and presented it to the cashier, the horrified look on his face when he looked at it I can still see to this very day. He gasped, spluttered, can’t give you this he said and promptly disappeared, coming back immediately with a gentleman in a pin striped suit who was obviously the manager. Now sir, why do you want such a sum of money from a branch that is along way from where you live? My reply was I am on holiday, I am running out of funds and would like some of my money, not an unreasonable request is it I snapped. I was now beginning to get rather irritated. Do you have any means of identification, said the man in the pinstripe suit, NO, I said, I am on holiday on a boat. Oh, we will have to phone up your branch and get permission and, very matter of factly he said, you will have to pay for the phone call. Do what the bloody hell you like I only want some money to continue my holiday I replied. After about ten minutes the clerk beckoned me over and said we have permission to give you your money, sorry for any delay etc. I took the money and walked out, nearly turned round and went back in to tell them exactly what I thought about their stupid system, but the sun was shining and the river beckoned and I thought better of it. On arrival back at the boat I was greeted by shouts of where on earth have you been, in some pub or other probably was the general consensus of opinion, I was going to explain at length at what had just happened but in the end just said yes, in a pub. I don’t think I could be bothered to relate it all.

We cast off from Yarmouth and in hindsight I now think it would have been better if we had gone north as we never did manage to navigate up the Ant to Barton Broad and beyond, but back to Brundall we went. Over Breydon Water again, the scene seeming to change with every crossing, this afternoon it was slightly choppy with a strong breeze. Past the Berney Arms, shut as it was about four o’clock, through Reedham, going past another three Inns we never called in, the Red House at Cantley, the Beauchamp Arms at Claxton and Coldham Hall, arriving again at the dyke by the Yare Hotel just in time to prepare our evening meal.

Thursday morning arrived with another pleasant day in prospect weather-wise; we had to go today to make sure we got onto the Northern Rivers in plenty of time for returning the boat on Saturday and so we bade farewell to Brundall and set off up the Yare for yes, Yarmouth again. It must be said however that nobody had seemingly got fed up with this journey as there had been no complaints from any member of the crew. Every one seemed to find something different to do, obviously someone had to steer the boat but then another might be looking at the scenery and the craft on the water, somebody might be in the galley making tea or washing up, the other two members either reading a book or having a post meal nap. Past Reedham Ferry and through Reedham itself for the final time and up the stretch of river leading to Berney Arms. I always liked this part of the Yare, maybe because of the sense of isolation it seemed to impart to the observer, the wind always blowing, the grazing cattle in the water meadows and the sky seeming to stretch for ever. Another fairly calm crossing of Breydon Water and we were soon moored up on the Quay adjacent to the North Tower, a remnant of the days long gone when Yarmouth was a walled town. We wandered into Yarmouth and said our farewells to the place, finally ending up in the Crystal pub on Fullers Hill playing a new game of darts we had learnt from the locals called Mickey Mouse which you could play with two on each side. It was then back to the boat for an early evening departure for Stracey Arms where it was decided we would moor for the night. It was a very calm, still evening when we “set sail “from Yarmouth arriving at Stracey in maybe an hour and a half with the evening shadows beginning to lengthen and the sun a huge red ball in the western sky. The moorings were very busy as, then as today, it is the last available mooring before Yarmouth. We found a spot some considerable way up the bank from the pub which in those days was still a traditional style one, not the establishment that is there nowadays. We had something to eat and ventured off down the bank to the pub. It was packed, we had an enjoyable evening conversing with the varied clientele and then made our way back in the dark, tripping over quite a few mooring lines it must be said.

Friday dawned, bright and clear. There was a slight breeze rippling the water of the Bure, it was our last full day already. Where the time had gone I do not know, it had simply flown by and for the first time in a fortnight I thought back to work on Monday. We departed Stracey Arms after breakfast and headed up the Bure past Stokesby Ferry, under Acle Bridge with the delightful thatched Bridge Stores on the right hand side, round the ninety degree bend at Thurne Mouth and past the weird remains of St Benet’s Abbey with what appears, to my eyes anyway, to be a gigantic upturned flower pot in the middle, and down Ranworth Dam, across Malthouse Broad to moor up at the staithe at Ranworth.Wandering up the road we came to St Helen’s Church and we were soon climbing up the steps to the top of the tower, which a lot of visitors to Ranworth have done over the years and are still doing to this day. On emerging into the sunlight the superb views across Broadland made all the puffing and panting well worth while. Malthouse Broad with all its’ attendant craft either moored or milling about was glistening in the sunlight on our right, in front was Ranworth Broad and I think even back then no boats were allowed on it, and behind us were all the fields and countryside going south to Brundall where we had so recently been. All in all a tremendous view which put us all in good heart. On descending into the Church, I noticed a young lady restoring the Rood Screen and went to have a few words with her. I admire people with that kind of skill tremendously, probably because my efforts at art are pathetic to say the least. She has done a tremendous job I must say as, looking closely at them in 2009, they are absolutely beautiful. A quick visit was made to the Maltsters on the way back with, again, admiring glances being directed at the wonderful boat shaped bar and then it was time to be off.

Turning left out of Ranworth Dam the Ant Mouth was soon reached, I felt it a pity that we had not explored this river, but you can only do so much in the time available. Up we went past the entrance to Wood’s Dyke, where sadly we would have to leave the boat tomorrow morning, past the Swan and under the bridge at Wroxham.We went as far as a bend in the river near Belaugh where we turned the boat around and headed back to Horning, where we arrived at a little after 3-30 and moored up at the public staithe right by the Swan itself. The pubs were shut, so we bought a Watneys Party Four and drank it sat on the side of the boat. When ever I look at the photographs now they always make me chuckle, as we are all pretending to be under the influence.

We dined early and were in the public bar of the Swan dead on opening time at 5-30. The thing I remember about our brief sojourn in the Swan is the bar billiards table, I think it was the first time I had clapped eyes on one of these and to this day I have not the foggiest idea of how you play. I was, however, intrigued by the mushroom over the hole in the middle of the table. We wandered up the road to the New Inn from where our adventure had begun nearly a fortnight ago. By now the mood of the party was becoming decidedly sombre, as we were beginning to realise that we had to go home tomorrow, even the sight of the Landlords pretty daughter did not cheer us up. By the time we had moved on to the Ferry and sat down in the seats overlooking the river we were positively downcast, nobody said hardly a word, all of us I suppose were just reflecting on what a fantastic time we had had and really did not want it to end. But back down to the New Inn we went, somewhere along the way the atmosphere changed and by the time we turned up at the pub we were our normal happy selves again. So by the time we arrived back at the boat it seemed as though were starting our holiday not going home in the morning.

Saturday morning dawned, a glorious early September day, with blue skies and no breeze to speak of. The sadness of the previous evening was forgotten as we busied ourselves with the task of tidying the boat and made sure it was in a suitable state to return to the yard. With this done, we politely asked the two boats moored abreast of us if they could move to let us out and we set off on our last little cruise up the Bure to the boatyard. There was hardly ripple on the river that morning as we slowly chugged past the Ferry Inn and turned left into the wooded recess of Wood’s Dyke, the sylvan setting of yesteryear has been replaced with a totally open view and, as I write this, I am looking at the photograph taken the moment Langwith Avocet entered the inlet. It is one of my favourite pictures and every time I look at it the memories come flooding back. We moored the boat on the right hand side of the dyke and went into Norfolk Knight’s office to retrieve our luggage. Soon all the cases were packed, the staff had come to inspect the boat and dip the fuel, surprisingly there was some left. We were complimented on the cleanliness of the boat, something that we had prided ourselves on, and then with last farewell glances at the vessel that had been our home for two weeks we were off up the lane into Horning Village and to the bus stop at the main road. The bus arrived, we all piled on and of the homeward journey I remember only two things, one was going through the centre of Grantham and the other was when the coach stopped at the then brand new services on the M1 at Woodall, where I met an old school friend Ken Haslam who was on one of the other coaches from Norfolk. He said he had been on his honeymoon on the Broads. I offered him my congratulations; I have never seen him since. Then we were home.

So ended the finest holiday I have ever had. We were going back surely, we all agreed we had to go back, but with ever growing commitments like marriage, holidays with girlfriends etc. we never did. Of the other members of the crew I do not think that one of them has since set foot in the County of Norfolk. I have been back many times in the intervening years; such was the effect the landscape had on me. However it was to be another nineteen years before I had another holiday on the boats, but that as they say is altogether another story.

David Campbell 2010

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