I headed out of Happisburgh, along the 'Byway to Ostend (1/2 a mile)'. I didn't follow the Byway to its conclusion at Ostend, a hybrid of a chalet holiday park, old people's bungalow estate and Essex pioneer settlement, which seemed to be a sort of addendum to Walcott.
Instead, I took a left turn to follow another route, across a field, through the grounds of All Saints Church and past the Lighthouse Pub. The pub was a roadside affair which featured a campsite, large beer garden and further up another piece of land that appears to be under development. This was fronted by a parade of flowerbeds and no less than four large blue signs announcing 'Walcott says thank you NHS' and in smaller font at the bottom 'Thank you NHS love from Steve'.
The Church and pub were outliers of Walcott proper, the only buildings for about half a mile. But I soon emerged into the beginnings of Walcott, past it's worn village sign and the village hall, which had an impressive floral display in a bathtub out the front. The parish notices displayed above it talked of typical pressing local issues; car parking, traffic volumes, 'the defribulator' and dog theft. Additionally there were inevitably Covid issues added to the usual list, including a missing sanitiser station that would be 'investigated'.
A series of small mosaics on a low wall outside somebody's house marked rememberance day (a large poppy motif), Walcott itself ('where the land meets the sea') and (presumably) the latest, a rainbow motif marked 2020, the (first) year of Covid, and support for the NHS and key workers. This display of folk art was the first example I noted as I entered Walcott and headed to the sea front. I knew it would not be the last. I was heading to a spot I knew to be ripe in the sort of ramshackle, homemade decoration that is such a great feature of seaside spots around Britain, particularly the ones that have yet to be overly, or at all, tidied-up.
I was heading for the Walcott/Bacton Interface, the zone immediately each side of the where Walcott ends and Bacton begins, at least according to the road signs. Without them, there is no obvious point at which one becomes the other.
Equally abitarily, I decided this zone really begins to emerge, on the Walcott side, where a sign displaying a forlornly sad looking wooden fish reads 'No Beach'. The creature was a folk art classic in its simplicity and the words seemed to match it's sad visage. On the other side, the word 'parking' was added, or more accurately, had not been removed. I should have guessed, considering that probably nearly all notices in the wider vicinity, official or otherwise, are concerned with either parking, private property or usually both.
At the very epicentre of the Interface is a series of four or five walled or fenced off enclaves, most containing at least a caravan and usually other ephemera, detritus and an occasional vehicle. The strangest and most impressively 'folk art' of these featured a wall embedded with all manner of creatures and appendages around all sides. A small child would probably have taken it for the exterior of tiny fairground or amusement arcade. Among the menagerie cemented into or onto the wall were stone fish, birds, gargoyle heads and a large Aslanic lions face. Also there was a letter box constructed out of blue and white tiles, embedded into the wall, and which contained the single word 'Correio'. Correio is apparently the name of a Portuguese language newspaper published in Luxembourg. This gave the enclave an extra dimension of enigma, indicating strange international connections The only other phrase displayed on the wall, 'shifting sands', did little to dispell the mystery.
An opaque 'window' in the wall revealed little of what was inside the enclave. Whatever was beyond was distorted and obscured. The only thing visible was a caravan or possibly motorhome, rising slightly above the wall. There was no sign of life. Around the back was a slightly rusting and apparently out of action white van. I wondered if the enclave was a permanent residence or some kind of bizarre holiday let.
I moved on and passed the other enclaves, less impressive but equally puzzling. One contained just a small caravan, a sandy floor and a couple of raised beds that were still under construction. A sign on the fence was advertising 'North Norfolk Coast and Country relaxing places to stay'. I assumed this was one of them. It's immediate neighbour was hidden by a six foot wall made of breeze blocks, with a canon-cum-weathervane amalgamation perched on top. A flagpole rose up from within the compound, flying the flag of St George. I didn't attempt to look over the wall.
Past these unexplained enclaves, at the Bacton extremity of the Interface, was the Poachers Pocket Pub. The large car park extended from the main road across to the path above the beach where I was walking. The outdoor benches were abandoned, partly due to the wet weather and partly because today was the day Covid restrictions were relaxed to the point that people are allowed back in pubs. I could see a handful of people sitting in the rear window of the cavernous looking establishment, taking advantage of this situation. I didn't feel tempted to join them, thinking it would be better wait a bit and see how things panned out with the Indian Variant before re-visiting pub interiors.
Around the back, a decrepit and formerly white painted outbuilding of some kind featured a fading sign that suggested passers by 'Try our Superb Calvery'. The smaller fonted addendum 'Sun', revealed that a full seven day a week 'Toby Calvery' style operation was not being offered. Indeed, the apparent age of the sign gave doubt as to whether anything was still being offered at all. But back around the front of the pub, newer signage gave assurance that it was.
I headed back, past the enclaves and a giant metal replica seagull marking the boundary of one of them. Across the street, a ramshackle bungalow, with a large Esso sign on the side, shared it's plot with a green nissen hut, heavily covered in logos and badges. At first I couldn't work out why an apparently randomly placed 'closed' sign was displayed half way down the garden, until I saw another sign offering 'MOT' tests near the bungalow.
The bizarre Nissan hut/MOT garage/bungalow amalgam was the penultimate manifestation of the Walcott/Bacton Interface I encountered, before I once again passed the Sad Fish, bade it farewell and left the zone.
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