or 'My Walk from Hunstanton to Holme-Next-The-Sea: A Twitch In The Heart.'
''-O, Bird of sky, on winged high,
who sing your cry, for only I...''
I began my walk along the quayside of Hunstanton beach, parallel to a grey winter sky and it's yawning tide. The air was cold, with a light wind that highlighted its own absence between those minute moments of push and pull one feels by the ocean. I watched gulls flit about the pools and puddles along the sands, occasionally taking hold of (what I can only assume given my distance from them) a shellfish or such and ferry it high into the air for a brief time before dropping it mid-flight, to evidently hit the ground and presumably open itself from the impact. Do gulls have such precise co-ordination to hit a rock from such a height, or the internal reasoning of equations to factor in winds, weight, trajection, and such? Though the idea is fascinating on the intellect of such an action I would have to wager it does not do these things in understanding, more to the fact after seeing one of its kin attempt to consume a disposable vaporiser atop a bin. Potentially, he was just taking the edge off.
''-O, ship of mine, in soaked brine,
who creaks at time, each horizon line...''
After the quayside was the Wolf's Trail, an homage to King Eadmund The Martyr and original patron saint of England (before Christendom awarded this to Saint George of dragon, day, and flag renown). I continued on into Old Hunstanton and after one or two back-tracks I had eventually made it to the coastline, which was to be my guide for the foreseeable time. I changed my trainers for my trusty boots and set out along the sand. Though this was by no means a long distance to walk it was, by my account, the first time I was officially 'hiking' the trail. It was a peculiar feeling to walk in one direction with no real knowledge or foresight as to what I would find along the way. I gave in to pondering the notion that such an act of wilful blindness is hard to come by honestly. If you were to pack the car with no planning and drive yourself down roads aimlessly you could not achieve the same feeling. Roads are littered with signs as to where you've been and where you're going, which turns take you closer to which destination, and which stops might suit your current or future needs best. I am aware this is incredibly convenient and logical to have in a world such as ours; I am not saying we should do away with them in favour of wide-eyed adventure, I get lost enough as it is. What I am saying, however, is to hike from town-to-town 'off road' is more akin to sailing, in which you set off from one port to the next with only cardinal directions and learned experience to see you there. I had officially set sail for the first time.
''-O, guiding feather, grant fair weather,
my soul to tether, we go together...''
Before long I had made it to the dunes of Holmes-Next-The-Sea and the trail hugged the border of the National Wildlife Trust's bird reservation. What was once a solitary walk folded into a trail populated by bird-watchers. I hold a partial twitch in my heart for all things feathered, though I am no more an entry-level hobbyist into such matters. I found myself stopping at times as Twitchers blocked the narrow way with collapsible chair and large, tripod-monoculars. I attempted to not disturb them as best I could, though my nods and thanks were usually met with resigned sighs or a half-effort shuffle to one side as I lumbered myself passed, cautious to avoid knocking their equipment (or selves) with my pack-mule frame. It felt appropriate to turn my eyes to the sky and put my limited experience in twitching to use, seeing if I could sense-spot any birds as they went about their own journeys. Oyster-catchers, Godwits, and Larks were out, though I found it difficult to discern them on anything more than half-baked giss. Watching these birds fly, hop, and muddle about brought me back to thinking on my prior point of wandering and how, in a sense, birds have no need for much more than landmarks and memory to get them where they're going. One could argue the signage along driven roads are a form of landmark, to which we travel in the same capacity. This may have been a comparative stretch, but it brought me to the notion that migratory birds are, in fact, sailors themselves. Once a bird is high enough up its horizon points become omni-directional and to migrate continents would be to do away with landmarks all together, with only a vague direction and time. While my eyes were scanning and mind distant I had failed to notice that I was coming up to a point I had looked very much forward to passing on my first day; SeaHenge.
''-O, mighty claw, upon my fore,
take to soar, and find our shore...''
I had heard scant legend of its being along the route I intended to go and as I saw its depiction on an info-board aside the path I had very nearly missed it. My excitement was premature, however, as its exact location had been obscured for the sake of its own preservation. Tall logs standing guard shoulder-to-shoulder, surrounding a giant upturned stump that had survived (or was told had survived) since the bronze-age. I recalled the Wolf's Trail previous and turned my thoughts to the sheer weight of history these lands held. Literal ages before King Eadmund wore the crown, before the Northmen landed on these shores, these people congregated near my very standing in community to erect such a landmark. For a long time this would have likely been the only structure for miles around, a gathering place of great importance, and a beacon to the wanderer that amongst the dunes, sand, and woods you were not alone. That people had walked these paths before, that there were communities of fellow kin just over the horizon line. I imagined a time in the bronze-age, to stumble on such an auspicious sight after several miles of coastline and what that would bring to mind: thoughts of home, of communality, of faith, of perseverance. A thousand years later, with King Eadmund and Christianity it would have held the same weight, and after the Viking invasion, the Roman invasion, and the Norman invasion? Here it stood, maybe with less grandeur than in its day but nonetheless mystical. How many feet had trod the ground I now walk, how many people came this way in search of something only to come across this ancient edifice along the path? It was all I could do but to long to lay a hand upon it and share in that alchemy of collective history.
''-O' soon to rest, your little crest,
in new-land nest, at end of quest...''
I slowed my walk as I went from board to sign, looking outward land-side and contemplating the beauty in the history before me. After I had passed its supposed locality my rumination was halted by a marsh-harrier hovering over the path, before it dived into the brush. As I got closer along the path and it scrambled to fly off I could see it had killed (and attempted to carry, but essentially flung) a small mouse or shrew. Though my thoughts were already tuned into a more historical-religiosity I could only think to see the beauty in this as well. That this Marsh-harrier's ancestors likely shared these grounds with those I was dwelling on who too had called these lands home. I made it to the end of the reservation and fell into its entrance-point café to eat and arrange my thoughts.
I had awoke in my bed that morning and found myself here with the day half-spent. Everything before, hopping the buses to Hunstanton, the Wolf Trail into the beach trail, the birds and their watchers, SeaHenge and the Marsh-Harrier, were all immediate history. Every minute passing is not unlike the ink from my pen leaving its impression on the page as it travels rightward across the page. The birds that call these lands home leave their impression as they live upon them to the small rodents and people that pass through. The people I met today unknowingly walked and watched in the same places as tens of thousands of people have done before them, very likely more. That I, in my self-centred egoism, had set out that day to 'conquer' something, like a Viking finding new shores; shores new to only themselves.
That history in this way is not always a grand monument, something to erect and stand tall for all to see and know. It can be a moment, beautiful in its fleeting, with only impressions left upon the mind. That we can use these awe-inspiring landmarks and mighty kings to pin what has passed before us, but we should spare a thought for the unwritten history of those quiet lives of getting by that walked our same paths through millennia; those birds that sailed above our heads and left nothing behind to prove they were every there. Though, if we stop briefly in our busy lives to ponder such things, we may be still long enough to see a falling feather to mark the passing of time. Or, as I then discovered below my elbow against the table, a splat of fresh bird scat.
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