Walk 42: Betwixt the Broads and the Sea: grey seals and a witch's leg

We had a family holiday in Martham when I was a child. I can’t remember much about it. But etched in my memory is the scene in John Betjeman’s A Passion For Churches. A hapless choirmaster is taking his trebles through the hymn Ye holy angels bright in the song-school of the (now Old) Rectory. Meanwhile, in the study above, the parson is oiling a model engine. My, how the CofE has changed in the last half-century.

That hymn – one of my favourites, as it happens – became the song for today’s pilgrimage, much as To thee, O Lord, our hearts we raise did yesterday. The ‘holy angels’ which fly on the hammerbeams of the roof of St Mary, Martham were thoroughly restored in the nineteenth century. The nave and tower are fifteenth century Perpendicular; light floods through the clear glass in the north and south walls and clerestories. The east windows of both aisles contain medieval glass which has been sensitively set amid accompanying patterns. Less successful, perhaps, was the 1850s chancel, which is dark and oppressive, particularly in contrast to the brightness of the nave. I wouldn’t be surprised if those choirboys – now in their 60s – have had problems with their eyes!

The early morning mist had cleared, and this was an unseasonably warm and bright October day. The round tower of St Mary, West Somerton beckoned me over the fields as I merrily sang Darwall’s 148th. I was greeted by a sign informing visitors that the church was closed due to scaffolding inside. Happily, I am tall enough to peer through windows, although not as tall as the nineteenth century Norfolk giant, Robert Hales, buried in the churchyard. His tomb records his height as a whopping seven feet and eight inches.

My disappointment was short-lived as a member of the PCC arrived with supplies for Sunday’s post-service refreshments. (‘Ye saints who toil below.’) This church has traces of medieval wall paintings. Some more post-medieval plaster is coming off the walls voluntarily, hence the scaffolding. It’s a beautifully cared-for, homely little church.

Less than half a mile away, behind the bulk of Burnley Hall and surrounded by woodland, is the ruined church of St Mary, East Somerton. (Our Lady was evidently popular in these parts.) This is a famous ruin, because of the oak tree which grows out of the centre of the nave. Legend has it that a witch was buried here, and the tree is her leg, protruding from (and destroying) the church.

St Mary’s fell into disuse after the Reformation. (Presumably because only one St Mary’s Church was needed to serve these two small, conjoined villages.) The visitor enters from the east through the chancel arch. No remains of the chancel are visible, but it must have been a fair-sized church. I can imagine, on a cold, dark day, this feeling a bit spooky. While I was there, midday silently struck, and I said the Angelus – this is still consecrated ground, after all – and prayed for the ‘blessed souls at rest who ran this earthly race’ here.

If you approach Holy Trinity and All Saints, Winterton-on-Sea by foot from the north, you walk through immaculately kept allotments, where old boys still wear braces and flat caps. The guide claims this is Norfolk’s third tallest tower. It rises majestically from this historic fishing villages, the greatest of the towers which form a sentinel on this east Norfolk coast.

The church inside is unmistakably maritime. Fishing nets hang off the north wall. Even the Blessed Sacrament is the light from a boat. In the north-east corner of the nave is a Fisherman’s Corner, focussed round a massive crucifix carved from ship timber in the 1920s by a curate, Fr Clarence Porter. Porter later became Rector. Under his and other priests’ influence this parish became full-faith Anglo-Catholic. Porter himself had ministered in Anglo-Catholic shrines in North London, as well as serving a curacy with Bishop O’Rorke in Blakeney. (Indeed, this church has very much the same vibe.)

Porter’s life and incumbency came to tragic end in 1932 when he drowned while rescuing one of his choirboys who got into trouble in the North Sea. He was aged just 47. He is buried in the churchyard, immediately outside the east end of the chancel, and his beautiful Comper-esque memorial forms a poignant part of the Fisherman’s Corner he created.

Winterton Dunes, north of the village, is a designated National Nature Reserve. The paths are dotted with Amanita muscaria – large, red fungi with white warts. They are exactly the sort of fungi you would find on the set of a pantomime. They are as poisonous as they are hallucinogenic. Big, hairy caterpillars crossed my way, as dragonflies darted around me.

My path joined the Norfolk coast path, separated from the beach by a steep bank of a sand dune. As I made my way progressively north it occurred to me that I was set to walk three miles adjacent to the sea without actually seeing it. So I scrambled up the bank.

I’m glad I did, because below me on the beach, and in the water, were 25 grey seals. I gazed at them with delight. Some were sunning themselves, while others were dualling. A few were swimming – their heads bobbing in the water – and others flopped across the beach, honking as they went. Then I realised that, beyond the groins on the next stretch of beach, were at least a hundred more. I kept a very safe distance, but spent a good 20 minutes transfixed by this wonder of nature, which I had all to myself.

Once I had taken my eyes off the seals, I realised I had an excellent panoramic view. Behind me, Winterton’s tower shimmered in the autumn sunshine. To the north I could clearly see the tower of (I think) Waxham church. Much further to the north the sun was catching the unmistakable red and white stripes of Happisburgh Lighthouse, and the tower of its church close by. Behind them was just visible the pylons of Bacton Gas Terminal. Inland too was a smattering of windmills, pulling me inland for the next part of my walk.

Once you have crossed the marshes towards Horsey pretty much the first building you come to is the Nelson Head pub. It’s one of those pubs which seems to have no possible explanation for its existence. It’s on the lane which is a dead-end, and serves a tiny village. It’s as proper a coastal pub as you will ever find. Old rifles hang from the ceiling, and the walls are crammed with portraits of sea heroes and paintings of great ships. Old men prop up the bar, their dogs sleeping on the floor. Did I stop for a pint? It would have been rude not to.

Tucked away on a back lane in the village is All Saints, Horsey, with its Norman round tower and thatched nave and chancel. This was perhaps the least impressive of today’s churches, but it was my favourite. Dimly lit, its peeling, damp walls spoke of an incredible timelessness. The only sounds were a solitary fly, and the gentle birdsong outside. It is sometimes in the simplest houses of God that God makes himself known to the simple soul.

I walked down to Horsey Mill – my second National Trust property in as many days – and then took the footpath alongside the Hundred Stream to Martham Broad. Part of me wanted to walk round the broad and take the long route beside the River Thurne back to Martham. But my legs were tired, and I had an hour’s drive back to my North Norfolk base ahead of me.

Instead, I retraced my steps from West Somerton back to Martham. As I walked through the fields I sang the final verse of Richard Baxter’s hymn which I had been humming all day:

My soul, bear thou thy part,

triumph in God above,

and with a well-tuned heart

sing thou the songs of love;

let all thy days

till life shall end,

whate’er he send,

be filled with praise.

As I did so, a large flock of geese flew overhead, providing a descant.

Walk: 13 miles https://explore.osmaps.com/route/29117663/betwixt-the-broads-and-the-sea-5-churches