Happisburgh

Spent a few nights in Happisburgh (pronounced haze-bruh or happy-berg depending on whether you're a local or me). Very fine.



We found a splendid campsite atop a cliff - a little more of it's land tumbles into the sea each year. It was a really nice mix of folk: families, OAPs in caravans and a group of girls from Great Yarmouth who for some reason got all sloppy over Jack and hung around outside the tent pretending to look at the sea but really craning to look in our door. I asserted myself by urinating in a circle all around the tent as they looked on, impressed.

My folks have had this tent for yonks - we used to live in it over summer and as a result it is now a bit rubbish. The door gapes open because there's a vital pole missing and the ground sheet went long ago. Combine this with a general slap-dash approach to camping and what do you get . . .

 . . . A bike light tied up with a pair of headphones to see by. It cast a rather ethereal light though.
Luckily one boot fair later we were fairly well equipped.

Jack made this very beautiful art installation from our finds and we sat on the cliff edge to eat our supper.

We looked out over the beach where a group of children were chanting 'Gary, Gary, Gary, Gary' as a middle aged man put his life at risk by climbing the sea defenses amongst the thrashing waves.

Then to the pub where we found the best cigarette machine:

disguised as a house, complete with cotton wool smoke in the chimney and pictures of regulars at the windows.

When we walked out in the morning we noticed this at the back of the pub - different nets and flowers in every window. I bloody love it.

We took a trip up the lighthouse.

Stonking. Pictured is our guide who Jack wooed with his geography skills, general Oxfordshire manners and inquisitiveness so we ended up with our own private tour. In short - Jack was a dirty suck-up.

phwoar.

I liked the wind vane with the internal dial.

Then another fete and the obligatory jars of home-made jam that come along with it. This game had a queue of ten little boys wanting a go - hitting a thing with a hammer and seeing a frog fly through the air what more could a young male ask for.

I found my dream house, symmetrical and beautiful. And it was opposite the best tea rooms ever:

It was just a semi-detached house with a very affable gent serving home made cakes and tea in a variety of novelty tea pots. You could sit in the conservatory on a mix of office furniture or in the garden.

The garden I suspect may have been landscaped by Miss Penelope Frogmorton of Bognor. But I'm yet to have it verified.

Unfortunately we didn't have the funds for a Go For It Hot Chocolate this time around. Seems a good reason to go back. I may also steal the 'go for it' tag to apply to some of my own wares.