or 'My Walk from Blakeney to Cley: The Horseshoe Shower'
'I walk on crooked foot, To find a hollow or a nook,
To rest one's body and restore one's mind, and appreciate the peace I find...'
During my travels along the Norfolk Coast walk I stumbled (or rather limped) upon many sights and scenes throughout the journey. Vistas and viewpoints, trails and treks, following through and around many of Norfolk's beautiful coastal reservations and sea-side tourist spots. Though the cafe's were plentiful and every town had a stoop to stop upon and replenish ones vitality, there were also large swathes of nothing but field, beach, wood, and marsh. When I state nothing, I refer to the settlements of people, though as lovely as people can be, there is a plenty to be found within the absence of them, of which I would like to focus on one such nothing now.
'...And had it been, or any seen, What had awaited me,
On the Horseshoe down to Cley, Of heavy clouds and darker sky...'
After arriving at Blakeney I took a moments rest upon a bench by the harbour. I had walked a good eight-something miles that day coming from Wells-Next-To-Sea off the East Quay and through the marshes, which were considerably soggy and puddled given the prior nights high-tide. Despite the less than ideal conditions I had decided against taking reprieve in both Stiffkey and Morston as I passed their turns off the trail, which has less to do with determination and more to do with stubborness. I had prior to this day 'done-in' my ankle on the approach to Wells-Next-To-Sea, though I still cannot recall the specifics as to how. Nonetheless, I had made it to a bench at Blakeney, some two hours before sunset, and considered my options. I saw along the street was a Kings Head with a large banner for 'vacant rooms'. I could consider my ramble for the day complete. That woud be, of course, if I did not spy beyond that a sea-defense trailing at a curve to the horizon. Though I made a point to not decide, I knew in my heart-of-hearts I had already. I stood outside the Kings Head and asked a spry older couple, all water-proof and walking-stick, where the trail lead. They informed me it was 'The Horseshoe' and lead to Cley-Next-To-Sea, not but an hour and a half walk and that a young man like me could do it in less. I judged that last part may have been retracted had they seen my hobble on approach. I lit out for the start of the Horseshoe.
'...And had I known, or any shown, The storm before me as I roam,
On the Horseshoe down to Cley, Would I laugh, or would I sigh...'
The trail started as all do, with head-nod and half-breath hello to every fair and fellow that passed. The start of trails are always fairly crowded whatever the time of day, dogwalkers and families walking in both directions, which lessen the further into the walk you get. There is a sort of solipsistic pride to be had when you greet, and are subsequently overtaken by, walkers only to see them in the distance stand still, stretch, check their phone or watch, and turn-face the way they had come. I always made sure to have a 'Fancy meeting you again' or 'We must stop meeting like this' in the barrel for when they passed. It is a baser impulse, but one must find dopamine where one can on such travels. Eventually all those in front had fallen behind and I was left with only the horizon to greet. The horizon, however, had a message of its own to give which came in the form of a coastal cloud, dark and heavy as pitch. Though the clouds around had been in a light drizzle, this particular cloud had set up shop over the middle-third of the Horseshoe and laid its border clear; a wall of torrential rain. It is not often in this life we can see the bad decision so clearly ahead of us, and often less persevere regardless. I let out a sigh which, to my surprise, turned into a laugh. I walked on.
'...And had they dared, or any cared, To brave the rains, ensnared,
On the Horseshoe down to Cley, How would it look within their eye...'
The rain was thick, all the thicker for the lack of wind to direct its landing. My outer-coat, bags, and hat were sodden in seconds of passing the threshold: the kind of soaked where you have no choice but to accept that there is nothing left to be done but be wet. No improvised shelter, umbrella, or renegotiation of clothing would lessen the effect of such a rain. The kind of downpour that all nascent clouds dream of unleashing in their accumulation of vapour. This was a coastal rain; direct and exact and beautiful in its deliberateness. As I walked through the wake I looked behind and ahead to see not a soul but I. This was a storm that only I, in that present moment, at that precise time, in that exact spot, was experiencing. This was a rain for one, made to order and bespoke, as the platonic ideal of a raincloud. Within it's shroud it looked as if the entire marsh, path, and shrinking Blakeney was under its influence. Had I not walked into it so willingly, so clearly saw the contours of the cloud's domain on approach, I could have believed it to be true. And yet, from within, the entire world was dark and damp. I was warm in my layers, and noticed the dryness of my chest against my shirt (bar the sweat) compared to the weight of water soaked into my wool gloves. I felt an overwhelming urge of appreciation and awe for the situation (call it hopelessly-romantic, or certifiably-crazy) I came to the half way point of the Horseshoe where an old log had been carved into a bench and decided I would sit, catch my breath, and wash my hair.
'...And if they bold, or else told, Of the coming wet and cold,
On the Horseshoe down to Cley, How would it look from up high...'
It couldn't have been more than a handful of minutes I spent on that bench. I took off my hat, loosened my ratty-tangled hair from its tie, and set about combing it through my fingers doubled over. My considerable amount of layers made me less than dextrous, even with my pack and bags removed, but I went about tugging the knots from my hair, wringing it, and untangling again. I considered rifling through my bag to retrieve the vegetable-oil soap, but decided against it for fear of the rain getting too intimate with my luggage. I thought to myself that this is quintessentially a shower. A silly observation to look back on now, but one I feel worth mentioning. Had I been a bolder (see, crazier) man I could have very well stripped to my Eden-dress and made full use of the storm. I imagine this revelation came to those Anglian travels centuries ago, who would walk these paths long before trail-markers and GPS. If the God's were so kind enough to provide a deluge then we should be so lucky to take it as a blessing and wash the salt-and-sand we had collected on our long-legged journey. I finished my indulgences in medieval-fantasia and set myself back to travel. Hair tied, hat on, bag-strapped and rested. In all this time the rain never relented, the clouds never lightened, and the wind never came to more than a moments bluster. I walked on to the next bend in the Horseshoe when suddenly the rain halted. This is how I know now that the storm itself was situated only above one-third of the trail, almost slap-bang in the middle of it. After a few steps I looked behind and saw the wall, the border-storm, stretching across the fields between my current place and the path I had stood on before my ingress into it, and out seemingly through the marshes that lead to the dunes and coast. I had walked the storm and felt the better for it.
'...For this challenge was mine to stand, torrent rains, of salt and sand,
a singular storm to once pass through, and be washed within; to feel renewed.'
My walk down the last leg of the Horseshoe was met with light drizzle (though I took a moment to retrieve my towel from my pack to dry my hair for fear of catching cold) as I saw Cley Windmill and the town behind it growing closer as the sunlight grew dimmer. I spent the remainder of the walk reminiscing on what I had just experienced: how my stubbornness had ultimately walked me into what most would agree was a 'spot of bother', but also how some part of me made the best of that bother. How I had persevered through a challenge I admittedly had no need to overcome, nor even found challenging when faced with it and no other alternative. It was cold and wet, yet I could only focus on how warm and dry I felt. The whole world looked to be consumed in dark and storm, and yet all I had to do was continue on down the path to change that, to which I did and saw the results. Wetter but wiser, with only a sniffle as a souvenir. If there is something to be learnt from this, I'm not sure. But at the very least I would recommend checking weather forecasts before any hike. And always bring a towel.
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