A brief staycation in dear old England.

A brief staycation in dear old England.

After yet another round of poisonings, hugely devastating explosions and increasingly depressing news, we just had to find a peaceful spot in the middle of somewhere else just to escape from that demoralising narrative that never seems to change its tune wherever you go. So we packed a couple of light suitcases and headed for the Norfolk Broads. It was a family gathering and against a current backdrop of families who have never been able to find any kind of neutral ground in recent times this was the place to be and the right time.

So it had to be the Norfolk Broads and why not? Now that the whole concept of staycationing has become the new holiday necessity, it seemed as good as a time as ever to make tracks for the tranquil surrounds of Norfolk, a pastoral idyll that once might have been immortalised by Constable or Turner in another far off century when everything seemed normal, restful and timeless. It was a time when farmers worked their land for a pretty penny and the agricultural labourers toiled diligently for their rich yields of potatoes, cabbages, various vegetables and anything that had to be alcoholic.

Walking along the Norfolk Broads with my wife's cousin, my son and his girlfriend made the most pleasant of changes from the everyday domestic scenery. Suddenly we were surrounded by boats, cabin cruisers, people messing about on the water and the healthy, invigorating air of the fenlands. My wife and yours truly had taken our young children to the Broads when indeed they were but wee nippers but that was simply many calendar years ago so it was good to be back again.

It occurred to you that for all the hardships and anxieties we may have endured for the last four months or so the countryside remains unscathed, untouched by the tragedies and duress of recent times. Life still moves on slowly, reliably, carefully, circumspectly but then confidently because the countryside has always moved at a leisurely pace even when times were much worse than they are now. There was the horrific foot and mouth disease which almost destroyed all imaginable cattle and livestock but the countryside is renowned for its resilience and it just kept going on.

This is not to suggest that those timber beamed country pubs next to quaint post offices the size of a postage stamp have come out of this global calamity with flying colours because clearly everybody has suffered here. But when the vicar came out of his picture-postcard church with his devout parishioners and the postman stopped his bicycle with a merry whistle for all who were prepared to listen you knew that the countryside had this one beaten. It was never likely to roll over and have its tummy tickled. Not the Norfolk Broads.

If truth be told the Norfolk Broads was doing a brisk, bustling business, handsomely preserved boats gliding through the water with an ease and placidity that lifted your heart. Beside the river, a small huddle of restaurants were once again up and running, groups of families still keeping their discreet distance but obviously enjoying each other's company because this is the way it should be rather than the way it could have been.

The Norfolk Broads of course is the kind of place where time itself seems itself to take its very own holiday, oblivious of seconds, minutes, hours, months and years. In a sense you had the impression that nobody ever seems to be worried or bothered about anything during the summer in the countryside. To the outside observer, the Norfolk Broads seems to deliberately slow down during the summer because during the winter there doesn't seem a great deal to do during the winter since the snows are thick on the ground, it's freezing cold and summer feels like a convenient opportunity to just get out into those rural pastures and sail along a river at your own pace.

And so it was that we finished off our Sunday lunch with the relaxed air of ordinary and extraordinary people doing the kind of things we used to before lockdown and never really flustered by any of the recent disturbances that had just taken place. Families of course always stick together in both good and bad times and this was no exception. Pleasantries were exchanged, gentle laughter always in evidence and then fond farewells before heading North to the Lancashire suburb of St Helens. It was just good to be together as family because that represents unity and togetherness.

Our first port of call was quite naturally an owl sanctuary because it just seemed an excellent idea. And besides why wouldn't you want to go an owl sanctuary? Our nocturnal bird friends never really get the publicity they probably deserve so here we were checking out the latest developments in the world of the hooting owls.

Now how on earth have owls been coping in the face of a human pandemic? Have they been yearning to see the kids and families? Have they fallen into a huge sulk because nobody wants to see them anymore? There is no egotistical issue going on here because the owls from all four corners of the world probably hadn't a clue what was going on with humanity. But those large, round, marble-like eyes must have been desperately hoping that one day they'd once again see excited young human faces making appropriately childlike faces at the owls and then pointing out to their parents that one or two of the tawny owls were beginning to think that absence certainly made the heart grow fonder.

Then we explored the rest of Blackpool Zoo and found, much to our disappointment, the lions were fast asleep and just completely indifferent to the human race. There they were sprawled out for all to see and how inconsiderate that must have been to the parents who must have thought the least our feline friends could do was engage with their children. One of the cheetahs it seemed also looked pretty fed up and lackadaisical, quite literally going around in circles in the same loop. The animal kingdom at Blackpool Zoo had literally given up which could have been construed as very disconcerting but perhaps understandable under the circumstances.

But then you heard the seals and watched the penguins and your faith was restored in life. In the distance, there was that familiar barking sound of seals, adorable creatures that kept waddling out of their luxury swimming pool with the expectant air of somebody who knows that, eventually, they'll get a bucket of fish for supper.  We also noticed a family of lumbering camels who were also doing their utmost to just hang out very casually and very despondently with each other. These looked very much like inconsolable camels who looked, for all the world, as if nobody would ever get a smile or laugh out of them. So you just passed on through thankful that at least the seals were in a reasonably amiable mood.

And then we headed for home after a week of rest and relaxation, dining and wining, putting the world to rights and grateful that we'd been privileged to be a part of each others lives when the last four months may have jeopardised that possibility. Norfolk and St Helens had satisfied the adventurous tendencies that we all look for throughout the year. It was off to motorway land.

Now the direction of travel that takes you from the North of England to the South of England is both  bewilderingly confusing and designed to make you feel as if you were entering a parallel universe. The journey was well over 100 miles and some of the language you'd now become witness to had become totally indecipherable. It was rather like walking into a classroom where the only words and sentences written or spoken are those of the Esperanto type.

Truly you were now confronted with the regulation cones with orange lights that did nothing but wink and flash in sequences. Cones on British motorways have now become very much the accepted norm. Thriving communities of cones are now flourishing on central reservations and hard shoulders of almost every motorway in Britain. In fact cones seem to be multiplying wherever you may be going in Britain. One day they will form small ghettoes and secret societies where special rules are applicable.

Now it seems the cones have been joined by a dense network of signs and sandbags, yellow and black diggers excavating for gold or oil in Texas perhaps. By the side of Britain's abundance of motorway furniture there were signs warning of speed checks. traffic merging into each other, lanes and lanes of traffic almost constantly weaving, darting in and out of each other and then competing for supremacy as the best and fairest driver in the world. It reminded you of that Scalextric set you were given as a child for your birthday only much more complicated and almost unbearable.

Then your heart went out to your wife when she found herself battling for the comfort zone against a battalion of lorries that were clearly intent on antagonising her without ever considering any kind of apology. Suddenly Eddie Hobarts, that most traditional lorries, seemed to be joined by a thousand supermarket lorries swerving audaciously into areas that left you gasping with horror.

As a non driver and somebody who could only feel deeply sorry for the driving fraternity my wife has my unqualified sympathy since the roads in Britain now begin to resemble minefields, a massively overcrowded conglomeration of endless traffic jams and nightmarish tailbacks stretching back through a hundred counties. Here were a procession of drivers furiously tapping their wheels and then patiently resigning themselves to almost half a day on the motorway. It was enough to make you wish that if you'd never seen another cone then that day would never come soon enough.

The reality was of course that we did negotiate this veritable jungle of motorised mayhem and cumbersome roadside machinery and London could be seen. We manoeuvred effortlessly onto the right road for Manor House and slumped over the finishing line over three and half hours later not emotional as such but just glad to be home. Oh for the joys of the staycation. It comes highly
recommended.