Days 138 & 139: Caister-on-Sea to Morston

“All the leaves are brown
And the sky is gray
I’ve been for a walk
On a winter’s day”

It’s only a chilly autumn morning, but ambling across the beach in California village triggers The Mamas & The Papas version of California Dreamin‘. I’m comfortable now, back on the coast.

Today will take me along the shoreline for about 20 miles. I prefer to walk on the firm, wet sand close to the water’s edge, skipping away from the entertaining incoming waves. If I fancy a change of view then it’s a climb to the top of the dunes. After a while, the wind will force me off the ridge, switching to a sheltered trail behind the dunes, although I lose the sea view, which invariably draws me back to the water, to renew the cycle — my rhythm.

A small shiny-black head breaks the water. Then a second. Looks like I have company. Shortly after, cresting a dune, I’m amazed to find over a hundred of them on the beach — the Horsey grey seal colony. I ease myself down into the dunes, rest against my pack, and watch them play. Who needs Sir David Attenborough and Frozen Planet 2? Well, actually, we all do, but that’s a separate discussion.

Happisburgh Lighthouse is the only independently run lighthouse in Great Britain.

The final beach approach to Mundesley is lined with impenetrable cliffs and the tide is coming in, although high tide is not for several hours. I’m reassured by the presence of dog walkers heading in the same direction until they turn round and head back. It’s fine, despite having to walk closer to the cliffs at the end as the rising water is pooling in the channels next to the groynes.

I catch the last bus inland to Trunch village and Meadow View campsite, which is basic but has all I need. There’s only one camper van in the field. A woolly-hatted young couple are playing cards beneath a canopy. We exchange greetings.

The Crown in Trunch is an unassuming pub, but my sort of place — cosy, friendly and serving a wonderful selection of pies with a pint. So nice that I have a second. A pint that is, not a pie. The tree-lined lanes are pitch black when I leave. Summer is definitely over and it’s back to a head torch to find my way home to a welcoming sleeping bag.

Next day

I’ve another long day and less than 12 hours of daylight, so I’m awake early to enjoy a beautiful sunrise as the sun burns away the mist floating on the dew-topped grass.

Returning to the coast, the scenery is a little more dramatic than yesterday.

A gale is forecast to hit this evening, so I keep up a reasonable pace as I want to be pitched in a sheltered spot before it arrives. Although the wind is light at the moment, impressive waves crash over the concrete promenade.

Approaching Cromer, the shingle returns.

The wind is rising. White plumes of smoke appear across the fields. A steam train! Perhaps I should jump on the “Poppy Line” heritage railway?

I reach a barbed-wire fenced-off section of the dunes. The Muckleburgh Collection is a military museum, with artillery guarding the sea approach. A small hollow provides some shelter from the wind while I put on my waterproof gear and grab some food.

If you were to choose a film location for spirit-sapping bleakness, with the rain falling and the wind howling, this would be hard to beat. The shingle expanse of Blakeney Point vanishes over the horizon. Surprisingly, I’m not alone. What sort of person fishes out here in this weather? Presumably, the same sort of crazy person that hikes and camps.

My progress is horribly slow and the weather is getting worse. I’m never going to make it to the campsite before dark, so abandon the shingle and head inland to take the road to Morston. It requires a fair bit of verge hopping, but it’s the lesser of two evils.

Scaldbeck Cottage campsite is just off the Morston Salt Marshes. I knock at the cottage door. There’s no answer. I can’t afford to hang around, so wander into the nearby empty field and pitch in the partial shelter of a tree, although not beneath it, as I don’t fancy a branch falling on me during the night. My Windy weather app is predicting gusts of 46 mph.

The rain is lashing down now so I cook in the tent vestibule, which is not great for condensation.

Later, I get that thrill of lying in a warm sleeping bag, listening to the sound of the wind and rain hammering against the tent.

“You found a place to pitch then.”

A voice in the dark. It’s Roberta, the owner. We have a slightly surreal conversation through the tent wall. She wishes me well and retires to her cosy cottage. I’ve visions of a roaring log fire and a glass of red wine. Don’t go there.

All’s well until I notice water pooling at the end of the tent facing the rain. The bathtub side is too low and the wind is pressing the tarp so tight against the bathtub that water is working its way up and over the edge. I raise the height of the bathtub and that seems to do the trick. A towel goes down. I stash my gear in various waterproof bags and lie awake with my head torch on until I’m satisfied that the tent will remain dry inside. Only then do I fall asleep, with my hiking poles rattling in the wind.

Walk distance: 40 miles.

Total distance: 2,198 miles.