THE COWROAST CHRONICLE

MAY I FLOAT THIS BY YOU?

Here's another 3000 words of the first chapter. I hope you find it a tolerable read. If not please let me know.

M

Chapter 1 cont....Wroxham, Norfolk.......

Then and now one couldn’t but be aware of the omni-presence of Roys of Wroxham.  Roys was founded in 1895 when brothers Alfred and Arnold Roy opened their first general store in Coltishall, Norfolk. The store was successful and soon the brothers set their sights on other towns. They selected Dereham, and for their third site a piece of land just outside Hoveton St. John. This new store, which opened in 1899, was a mile down the road from the main village of Hoveton but Wroxham train station was nearby and virtually all Roys’ supplies came by train, addressed to “Roy Brothers, LNER Station, Wroxham” and telegrams followed suit with a similar address. This was the beginning of the Roys of Wroxham name.  The Wroxham store became a thriving business, attracting many customers who stopped off en route to Cromer (a then popular and fashionable beach resort) to hire skippered sailing wherries. Boat makers and other traders in the area quickly adapted and a new trend began, boating on the Norfolk Broads. 

As the hire boat business expanded “letting” agencies such as Blakes and Hoseasons were formed and glossy brochures, eagerly awaited, would drop on the hall mat round about Christmas. The annual trip on the Broads was my expectation, my major focus, my dream.

Then one year we didn’t go on holiday on the Broads. This shattering news was given to me without consultation; a fait accompli. I was stunned. Mute. Bereft of feeling. I was about 9 years old so not worthy of consultation even though it meant my life no longer had any reason to continue and anyway I had no idea of what “fait accompli “ meant.

I realised later, much later, that rather than a sortie into the world of child cruelty warranting the intervention of Social Services, the change was simply because my parents fancied just that. A change. Rather than the Blakes glossy list of delightful craft my mother had found an advert in the Lady Magazine. This was and still is one of Britain's longest-running women's magazines. Based in London it has been in continuous publication since 1885 and is particularly noted for its classified ads for domestic servants and child care i.e. nannies; we had no need of servants domestic or otherwise and as the cruel decision not to hire on the Norfolk Broads indicated, the care of this particular brat was no longer on the agenda. However The Lady also has extensive listings of holiday properties including in 1956 a large houseboat at Wooton Creek on the Isle of Wight. I’d never been abroad before so that aspect appealed but a houseboat! “They don’t move” I protested.

 “It has a dinghy-you’ll be fine in that”

The houseboat was old, having, allegedly, taken part in the America’s Cup years before when owned by Lord Brabazon or some toff, but the dinghy was older. It showed its decreptitude on my first excursion. It leaked like a sieve. This did not become apparent until I was some distance from the houseboat. I was up the actual Creek but I did have a paddle. I also had a small saucepan whose presence heretofore had been a mystery. Why have a saucepan when there was no stove to cook on? I soon worked it out. The prospect of a soggy demise in Wooton Creek concentrates the mind and the saucepan became a baler. Over the next week my stroke to bale ratio was perfected. Twenty five pulls on the oars followed by returning 15 saucepans of water to the Creek.

I loved it and covered a lot of territory redistributing water from one part of the creek to another. There are worse ways of spending your time but few better. One of the worse ways was to be in the Army which is why my brother hadn’t come with us. An apprenticeship had delayed his call up for National Service but he was in his second year  in the army where he just happened to be stationed at Aldershot in the next county, a hop, skip and a jump to the Isle of Wight if you ignore the Solent. He went AWOL and hopped it out of Aldershot, skipped down to Lymington and jumped on a ferry to spend 48 hours at Wooton Creek before returning to Aldershot and a week of spud bashing. I was so proud of him for visiting. He enjoyed his two years in the army, playing sports- at which he excelled, learning to drive lorries and similar and even having a spell in Germany (fortunately in one of their inert periods). I’ve met a lot of people who said they enjoyed their time on National Service and many feel it should never have stopped. But then again I’ve met plenty of nasty, twisted perverts who maintained being caned at school did them no harm!
National Service had been scrapped by the time my acne popped and so I’ll never know if it would have been to my liking. I liked sport well enough but the rest of army life? I’m not so sure. Two years is a very long time out of your life when you’re a teenager. Even more when you’re a Septuagenarian.!

We certainly had a few more holidays on The Broads after the Isle of Wight including one jolly occasion-I’d have been about 15 and the boat was moored in the middle of Ranworth Broad and we had used a dinghy to reach the jetty. That evening in that dinghy the whole crew, comprising my father, mother, sister, brother and his fiancée, had rowed ashore to attend a dance in the local Village Hall. For me as a callow and shy youth the evening was one of those occasions where I stood awkwardly watching the adults enjoying a drink and a dance and desperately hoping no Norfolk Lolita would ask me to join her on the floor. Of course they didn’t because there was a shortage of Lolitas in Ranworth that year but my family enjoyed themselves. The return trip in the dinghy was hilarious with everyone except the 15 year old me having enjoyed adequate refreshment. We had cleverly left a light on board so as to be able to find our boat in the dark but so had everybody else. As a result we had two or three piratical and hysterical boardings before finding the right boat and settling down to bacon sandwiches having left a trail of craft whose crew were desperately looking for something suitable with which to repel boarders. It was one of those gatherings I will always remember.  So happy.

Returning to the subject of the dance I heard Joanna Lumley tell a story a while back about an occasion when she and a friend were at a dance. As this was Joanna Lumley I suspect the gathering was somewhere a bit posher than a Norfolk Village Hall but anyway it reminds me of the angst of that and other nights of my adolescence. She related how they had stood at one side of the venue watching one particular young man who kept glancing in their direction and was obviously trying to pluck up the nerve to ask one of them for a dance. After a couple more drinks to give him some Dutch courage and egged on by his mates he eventually made the long walk across the sparsely occupied floor. In a voice and manner which he’d probably practiced in front of his bedroom mirror many times he addressed Joanna’s chum.

“I don’t suppose you would care to dance with me?” he asked.

Her reply delivered with the directness of an bolt from a cross bow was “How very observant of you”

It would have pierced him to his very soul sending him back on the long march of shame across the dance floor that must have felt it had doubled in width. He probably had time to think what to say to his contemporaries who would have been watching with mounting excitement. Something along the lines that they were just a couple of lesbians etc., but his mates knew the truth and so did he. It would be a long time before he could pluck up the nerve to punch above his weight again.

Of course, as the Clearasil of time did its work, confidence returned and lust dominated, the refusals mattered less and acceptances increased. Probably in the same sort of ratio as rowing to baling on Wooton Creek.

Eventually the day came when I could hire a boat for myself although my father had to act as guarantor. I was 17 and together with a mate Peter Hill hired the cheapest boat we could from Powles of Wroxham. The boat, and this is really what drew us to her, was called Wendy which was on the B side of Good Vibrations issued in 1964 by the Beach Boys, a favourite group of Peter and myself and everybody else.

From what I recall (and that ain’t a lot) it was a week of floating and boozing setting a pattern for many years to come. I know we went to Coltishall because I can remember going in all three pubs there. The Anchor-now no more, the Kings Head and the Rising Sun which were (and still are) next to one another and adjacent to some of the best moorings anywhere. In particular I remember that this was the first time I experienced a “lock-in”, As a 17 year old I had been frequenting pubs for a couple of years, aware that as long as I behaved I could usually get away with a bit of “underage”. Although I do remember one occasion with a friend, Dave, that as 15 year olds we tried our luck in the Boot in Edgware (also now defunct-the Boot that is not Edgware)

Politely requesting two light ales, albeit in a voice only recently lowered in pitch, I could see the landlord almost smile (a rarity in most pubs in the 60s) as he leant over the bar and asked me “to give my eyes a treat”, look at the other customers and tell him if I could see anything that might make him refuse my custom..

My stupidity and by association Dave’s, was soon obvious even to me. The other customers were all male, all of a similar height, all wearing blue coats and shiny black shoes enclosing sizeable law enforcing feet. The Edgware nick was about 100 yards down the road and these off duty plod were not going to think highly of a landlord serving alcohol to two pimply youths as yet strangers to a razor.

We were on a learning curve and rule one henceforth was if you’re doing something illegal don’t do it in a pub near a police station.

Two years later with Peter in Coltishall things were different. Coltishall didn’t have a police station; in fact it didn’t have a policeman. It had about a third of one; the other two thirds being responsible for at least two other villages. One of them was on the other side of the River Bure and thus separated from the pubs in Coltishall. And that’s why I was still in the Rising Sun at 1 a.m. The pub phone rang at about 10 o’clock and the landlord answered it and smiled. It was a short conversation apparently initiated by the landlord of the Recruiting Sergeant at Horstead.

Our landlord replaced the receiver and smiled again (not so rare in Norfolk pubs in the 60s) “Norman’s  on t’other side of river”. The whole bar relaxed and they all smiled too except for Peter and I who did not appreciate the significance of the phone call or who Norman was. One of the locals took time out from his dominoes to explain. If the local bobby, Norman, was in Horstead and because he only had a bike in order to pay us a visit he would have to cycle to the north to cross the river and then cycle south to check the Rising Sun. And he wouldn’t have time before his shift ended. Having established Norman’s whereabouts, the landlords of pubs nowhere near where Norman or his bike were could, if they wished, enjoy some afters. I suspect the truth is that Norman was too sensible to be buggering about on a bike on country lanes after dark and was quite happy to let drinking dogs lie.

Obviously a reciprocal arrangement existed between the landlords. All very civilised.

Two other things I remember about that evening.

I mentioned the man playing dominoes. Back in the 60s Darts, Dominoes, Crib, even occasionally Shove halfpenny could be found being played in most pubs; usually by the older men in the community although darts was equally popular with all ages.  Many pubs also had juke boxes, obviously more popular with youngsters and thus was the case at the Rising Sun, Coltishall. But there was a difference. Their juke box had a blank record on it. Put there at the request of the old boys who when playing dominoes or crib required a peaceful environment for such cerebral pursuits. They pooled their tanners (old sixpence equating to 2.5 new pence) and bought some silence which pleased them greatly as they watched innocent guileless youths, unaware of the blank record, feeding their money in the machine in the hopes of top ten entertainment. Their moans on discovering the ploy were met with a smile from the landlord who rightly explained the old boys’ tanners were as valuable as theirs. I think Peter and I finally got to hear our selection, including, of course, Wendy by the Beach Boys, around midnight. By that time I was out of the game anyway and about to learn another lesson that has stayed with me over 50 years.

But first, mention of the quiet required by Norfolk elders when playing dominoes compares much differently from my experience years later in the Pleasure Boat Inn at Alperton and next to the Grand Union Canal. The clientele was predominantly West Indian and the many games of Dominoes being fought out in the Public Bar on my visit one wet Monday evening were being played with an enthusiasm one would expect for a Windies side on the last day of the final test at Sabina Park. To loud cries of  Yeh Man! and Go Baby! the incoming domino was slammed to the table with a force and a noise which whilst it didn’t disrupt the awaiting dominoes it certainly disturbed them a bit. Multiply this by the fact that there were numerous games going on and the noise was palpable. Such fun. You wouldn’t have heard the juke box anyway.

Originating in the U.S.A. the word "jukebox" came  from the "juke joint", derived from the Gullah Creole word "juke" or "joog", meaning disorderly, rowdy, or wicked which wasn’t the case in either pub. ...well maybe rowdy in the Pleasure Boat.

To return to Coltishall the second thing I remember and which taught me a lesson much appreciated over the years was that we had arrived at the pub in daylight not expecting the distance of Norman and his bike would mean we were to remain on licensed premises till the small hours leaving its hallowed portals pissed and disorientated. By which time it was raining. Persistently.

The moorings were an open greensward with the bank allowing space for about twenty craft moored in line. Wendy was positioned the furthest from the pub. It was a pitch black, soaking night. We had no torch. We had no waterproofs. In our sozzled condition we would have struggled to walk in a straight line had it been daylight. We set off across the field struggling to find one another in the dark let alone any pathway, river or craft. We bumped into one another frequently and with appropriate giggling. Our only navigational aids were the lights from the pub so we knew where we’d been and ergo roughly where we were going, very roughly. A couple of boats presumably enjoying a long game of Monopoly or some conjugal foreplay.... I was never very good at either and could have finished up in jail with both..... also showed the odd light. Then the pub turned its lights off and the board gamers got bored and lovers sated also went dark. We were stuffed.

We stumbled and giggled round that bloody sodden field for ages pausing occasionally to re-establish contact with one another, strain the potatoes, fall over or sing a few notes from “Good Vibrations” This eventually proved to be our saving in that one sleepy boater, presumably a Beach Boys fan, irritated by our slurred performance turned a light on and advised us emphatically from his bunk that we should go away and stop that so-called singing. I’ve paraphrased his advice to spare the sensitivities of my more delicate reader but you get, and we got, the message. What we also got was our bearings. We now knew where the river and hence the boats were hiding and carefully, or as carefully as two pissed failed Beach Boy impersonators could manage,  worked our way to the end of the moorings and Wendy. We scrambled on board and sat dripping and giggling. The dripping continued for a while but the giggling stopped. In the beam of the cabin lights we could see plentiful indication that the field had at some time in the recent past had other occupants. A herd of incontinent cows apparently and evidence thereof stayed with us through the night. Happy days.

 

The invaluable lesson, of course, was always  carry a torch and for years it was very rare that I would be caught out torchless. Nowadays we all have mobile phones which all have torches and nobody goes anywhere without their phone. Other modern innovations of course mean that Norman the Village policeman has a car which I heard caused some consternation down Coltishall way but as nobody gives a stuff about late night drinking nowadays  he can concentrate on more serious matters.  

Before I go may I tell you about a memory of another Norfolk pub called The Dog at Ludham.  Nowadays it is a smart pub restaurant but back in the 60s it was a Watneys house (as were most of the pubs in Norfolk, Watneys having taken over by Steward and Paterson of Norwich and its many houses.

It served no food apart from the usual crisps etc and comprised a bar of old heavy tables and older uncushioned pews painted dark green. We arrived on a Sunday lunchtime when opening hours of 12 to 2 meant be on time or die of thirst. There was already a small gathering of locals and it was somebody's 80th birthday. Unlike nowadays when any birthday, significant or otherwise, is marked by balloons, cake, a strippagram, frequent use of the word "legend" and appalling renditions of HBTY,  the main feature of this 80th, apart from the polite good wishes of fellow locals was the offer of a drink on the house. "What'll it be George?" asked mein host. "Oi'll 'ave a large whisky if thats oilright" came the reply. George's elder brother who had celebrated his 82nd birthday just a fortnight before called across 

" A large whisky!? Oi only 'ad a single on my birthday-that's typical of your generation. Take Take Take".

To be continued.........