Norfolk

We decided to take an extended weekend away, staying in a beach hut in Norfolk England. I say ‘decided’, it was more ‘reluctantly agreed’ on my part… or ‘acquiesced’, is that the word? All this in the early part of the month of March mind you, which habitually clings to winter in the British Isles. She said, “it might be a bit nippy”. I had considered rattling off a fact I knew about how some pagan civilisations referred to the March equinox as the official end of winter, and that this differs from the meteorological definition of the season’s end, but didn’t bother. Ruminating over the unconventional timing and nature of this beach trip, I supposed she was feeling a staleness creep into our relationship and figured that a short break away and change of scenery might help reignite the spark. She had watched The Holiday recently, I think that’s what happens in that. All I knew was, it meant four days without FIFA or Call of Duty. Bitch.

The drive was three and a half hours. She had asked if I could at least do some of the journey behind the wheel; a request I flatly refused. I hate driving and she knows it. We argued about this, again, and I strived to make the remainder of the trip as awkward as possible. Staring aloofly out of the passenger window and picking at the stitching around the door handle, I said “no” when she asked if I wanted the radio on.

‘Beach hut’ is, apparently, a kookily ambiguous term used by AirBnB hosts for a rural shed with a bed in it. After kicking our bags under that bed (the only available space to kick anything), and eating toast for dinner, we had sex for about four minutes before connecting to the WiFi (surprising, I know) to look at all the opportunities for exploration and excitement the local area offered. After trawling the internet for about four minutes, Blakeney point was one of the top recommended attractions. “They do seal watching boat trips” my partner cries enthusiastically, looking at the cute baby seal pictures. I point to the text underneath, which she reads off: “the pupping season typically lies between June and August”. “There’ll be less babies in March, I guess” she finishes, hopes dashed. “Fewer”, is all I can think of saying.

Blakeney point is a strange part of the world. A spit of sand and grit runs seamlessly along a muddy grey sea that blends at some far-flung, intangible horizon into a muddier and greyer sky. Behind, and sprawling away from the beach, brackish scrub and fenland, as far as the eye can see. Nothing… utterly nothing… breaks the flatness that presents itself on looking in each and every direction. A Google search for ‘paintings by Andrew Wyeth’ (one of my favourite artists) begins to give some notion of the mood and muted colour palette of the landscape. I mention this thought to my partner, who nodded. I can’t imagine she knows or cares who Andrew Wyeth is. We’ve covered the visual aesthetic but what about the other senses you ask? The nose is struck with the odours of salt and earth. If ‘drab’ was a smell... Strong wind in the sedges and rushes at your back, and the heave of shingle in waves at the waterline, make for an incessance, like an old, crackling television, stuck forever on a channel with no broadcast. The sight and sound is beautiful in both its bleakness and punishing oppression.

She tries to communicate with me as I stand just out of reach of the white horses. I keep my back to her and skim rocks into the sea.

Homeward bound to their more appropriately warm and more appropriately sized flat, holiday buried in the past, the two sit in silence for the first few moments. He fancies a nap and sees no reason not to. She places a hand lovingly on his thigh though – what now? is his first thought. She points and says “look”. Over the dead and browned hawthorn hedgerows, a barn owl hangs in the sky. They watch, still in silence. The bird plunges out of view, behind that hedgerow; they suppose to crush the life from some small thing. He witnesses, through the rear window, the shaking to death of the prey. “That’s f*cked up!”. He turns to the face he says the words “I love you” to and sees, actually sees for the first time, doubts and desperations, sadnesses and longings quiver back and forth across her brow, like pits of light and shadow that form in a fine fur coat. How long have they been there? He feels, in his own face, things far more f*cked up. He takes the phone from the cradle on the dashboard and reroutes the map displayed on the screen.

“There’s a petrol station in coming up in 18 minutes. Wanna swap over there and I’ll drive the rest?”.

“Okay” she says.

“Do you want the radio on?”

“Okay” she says, a little brighter.