May 29th: The museum

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Today was washing day. When you plan to be on the road for 5 months but only bring a carry-on sized backpack, washing day comes around pretty quickly. In Norwich it was easy; RL has a washer/dryer combination machine. Here …. well I didn't exactly walk to the river and beat the clothes on stones, but, yes, time to handwash in the sink. I haven't had to do that since I moved to America 34 years ago… and cursed and swore with every sinkful of newborn baby clothes, wondering to what kind of backward place I’d moved! Clothes washed, it was up to the roof to hang them on the line. In the midday heat and the Essaouiran winds they were sure to be dry in no time.

Chores done, I went to the Sidi Mohamed Ben Abdullah museum, a short walk from the apartment. Founded in 1981, and named for the founder of the town, it is a small museum with some lovely pieces from the bronze age up to modern day. It is interesting to see jewellery from the 13th century alongside its modern counterpart and realise little has changed in either design or technique - both sets being large and clunky, ornate, and primarily silver. The facade of the museum is extremely plain. It easy to walk past without realising it is there. But the lobby is beautiful. It doesn't take much imagination to picture the pool that was there before the double staircase. The colours are mainly blue and white - as with many homes in the medina - and red for a background. There’s so much blue and white here, I often feel as though I’m wandering along the Mediterranean. The museum has coins, jewellery, pottery, sugar moulds, clothing that would be quite chic on any millenial, all the apparatus for extracting argan oil - which has been a large industry here for centuries - and lovely old photos of the town as it has changed.  The museum is open every day except Mondays, and admission is a mere 10 Dh ($1.00).

After a lunch of soup and salad - harira and leftover tabouleh - we went for a walk to the souk. Eggs and coconut milk were the order of the day… coconut milk for tonight's turkey curry. Success. Now to find the little French bakery that my aunt has been looking for. That was a much longer, and unsuccesful, walk. But we did run into my aunt's friend, the baker from the medina. As soon as I can I must take a photo of her with her pastries. She is such an effervescent woman, always smiling and laughing. Her pastries are works of art. I don't know how she manages to produce them on the small oven that she has in her shop.

We purchased tickets for an upcoming bus trip. The poor young man in the ticket office had to deal with us, a couple of young Japanese girls, and the driver and passengers of a departing bus, all at the sane time! Naturally no one but the driver spoke Arabic…  Wallking home we passed a newsagent displaying papers from around the world - something I miss in Venice. The Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung was a bew one to me. Apparently it is “a centre-right, liberal-conservative German daily newspaper.” Now I know!

A pause for coffee on the way home. Today I tried the intriguing sounding "Ness ness" - which turns out to be similar to a cappuccino. I'm still waiting for a good strong cup of Turkish!

Turkey curry, with coconut milk, made and devoured, we heard the sound of drums in the street. We rushed down just as they ended so went for a walk to the sea. There's a full moon tonight.

May 27 - 28: Exploring and planning

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May 27th: Essaouira at play

We set our alarm clocks for 7am planning to visit the large market at Had Dra.  But the rain woke us up at 6, and the market is a muddy place. Changing plans, we spent the day both in and outside the medina, checking bus and coach timetables while discussing the possibilities of a road trip.

We walked along the beach and explored far beyond the city walls, into what appeared to be an affluent neighbourhood; signs of gentrification here, too. The beach was crowded; families enjoying their Sunday, children playing soccer, kite surfers aplenty enjoying the wind for which Essaouira, the windy city, is famous. The plaza by the beach could be any Mediterranean beach

In the evening we opted not to cook,but to go out for dinner and a movie at the nearby cine club. I have good intentions of reading Neruda’s poetry, but as yet they remain intentions. The movie was Neruda,  the 2016 release directed by Pablo Larraín. Interesting - but I think I need to read more about Neruda’s life. For 100 Dh ($10) we were served fish soup, a delicious dessert of chopped pears & bananas, covered with toasted almonds and cream, and a tajine of our choice. My fish tajine was nothing to write home about - my aunt was even less impressed with her chicken tajine. But, for  $10.00 it was a pleasant evening, and only 3 other people watching the movie with us.

May 28th: Planning a road trip

In the morning I took some time to wander a small corner of the medina on my own and was rewarded with the sounds of drum beats from a small shop. I spent about half an hour with Said watching him at work on djembes and other instruments. He was born here in Essaouira, and has been hand carving and building instruments since he was 7 years old.

To their amusement, I stood and watched workers repaving a street. I pondered buying egg cups as gifts for friends. Strolling on I passed a cat house set out on the street. This city is full of stray cats; they laze in the sunshine and feast on the many scraps thrown to them by shopkeepers and fish vendors. I was amused, but wouldn't have considered a cat house necessary. I purchased an old photo showing the collapse of a section of city wall. Again, I had a lovely conversation with the owner - the woodwork for sale was carved by him, and the photos had all been taken by his father many years ago.

The shops in the medina sell mainly leather goods, silver jewellery, and wooden items - “magic” boxes with hidden slots and mysterious openings being their specialty, and proudly shown. Thuya is the wood most frequently used. So far I have been able to “converse” with the shopkeepers - gesticulating while using broken French.- They look disbelieving when I say “Anglais,” but smile when I touch my face/skin and say “Indian … mais Anglais.”

I made tabouleh for lunch, then we spent the afternoon researching bus schedules and hotels.  I miss my laptop as I am having to do everything, including this blog, on my little 2.5”x4”phone. (Thank you for tolerating the incorrect grammar and the autocorrect mis-”corrections”). I think we have it sorted: 5 cities, 4 nights away. This is going to be fun…. My aunt suggested with a laugh that we can get one bed and I can sleep on the floor...

May 26th: Grocery shopping by horse and carriage

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Today we needed groceries, so a trip to the souk was in order. We have a large fridge but tend to buy only what we need for a day or so - and why not, when fresh foods and meats are available within a short walk. My aunt has had a home here for many years; she has a number of friends, knows which shops have good produce or baked goods, and is greeted with hugs by many of the owners. Today we were lucky to pass by a particular bakery as they were opening - hugs and kisses were exchanged, and introductions made. We made a note to stop again on our way home.

The souk was busy as usual. Smells of fresh mint, cilantro/coriander and assorted spices mix readily with fruit ripening rapidly in the sunshine. We pass shops with mountains of dates - flies buzzing all around - but she is resolute in her determination to purchase only Moroccan dates. The souk seems to expand with every visit; the entire city is a maze of alleys within alleys. Our last visit took us to the fish market, today we pass chickens and rabbits. Some are caged, others penned, yet others have their legs bound and are lazing on the sidewalk awaiting their fate. It's not a fit place for a vegetarian. I eat meat, I abhor the animal farming methods in use today, I have reconciled myself to hunting for meat - but not for sport. We pass by the chickens, continue past the butcher shops as they cleave full carcasses, and on to purchase onions, squash, peaches and bread. The squash will accompany our leftover couscous and lamb curry tonight.

We returned home, passing the bakery where a line is starting to form… fresh quiches straight from the oven, items that look like pizza, and pasties. She hasn't even had time to put the prices out. We purchased a slice of quiche and a chicken sausage pasty for our lunch.

My aunt had spoken of two grocery stores outside the City walls. We visited the French store earlier in the week, today we decided to visit the Moroccan one. We walked back through the medina, to Bab Doukala and the awaiting taxi cabs, buses and horse drawn carriages. The buses are for long journeys, between cities. The taxi cabs are for short journeys. The carriages are for the poor who cannot afford the 6Dh ($0.60) taxi ride … or for those opting for a little more adventure. The carriages run to the Moroccan supermarket, about 10 minutes away, and cost 2Dh ($0.20) per person. They seat 6 … and do not move until they have at least 6 people aboard.

The journey was pleasant and short, and we were dropped off outside the supermarket in an area of council, or government supplied, homes. Not picturesque, perhaps closer to ghetto, but not unsafe. The supermarket had Whirlpool fridges and large flat screen tvs, and household goods as well as groceries; Tescos or a mini Wal-Mart on two floors, with a flat escalator between them. Prices for household goods were comparable to Wal-Mart, but quality closer to that of a dollar store. Appliances were on a par with the US - although wages here are not. We were only there to look, but bought cracked wheat/bulgar for tabbouleh, and a box of harira soup which we have both been wanting to try.

I have realised as I have wandered the medina, the souk, the grocery stores, and the stores I have visited in other countries, that I am a more knowledgeable cook than I give myself credit. My cooking is incredibly diverse, my love of cook books has taken me to other lands and introduced me to exotic dishes and ingredients - occasionally only by name and photograph.

Across from the supermarket, in what would be a council estate in the UK, the projects in the US, was another souk. We walked over to explore and found ourselves listening to Moroccan versions of Del Boy!

As we returned to Bab Doukala we noticed a restaurant advertising “terrace vue de la mer,” disbelieving that we would be able to see the sea, we entered and asked if we could take a look. Up the stairs and… the Catholic cemetery, the taxi cabs and carriages lined up for prospective customers, the City walls and Bab Doukala and yes, the sea! No additional invitation was needed for us to sit and order mint teas. One day soon we shall return to watch the sun set.

May 25th: Shukran

Today began at our usual leisurely pace; breakfast of kiwi and banana in lemon juice, bread and jam, and a steaming bowl of coffee… I could get used to this. The coffee my aunt drinks is a mix of coffee and chicory, just as I have at home. But hers is smooth and mellow, and delicious. I am not a coffee drinker; I require my cups of tea throughout the day, like a true Brit. However, when I do have coffee I prefer it to be Turkish, Irish, or a coffee & chicory blend. In that order. I first sampled Turkish coffee many years ago in a restaurant in Bayswater (London). I was smitten. Living in Dearborn (Michigan) gave me frequent access to it… Turkish coffee and baklava. That's a close definition of heaven!

My aunt had errands to run, leaving me to my own devices …

My aunt and I were last together approximately 25 years ago, but we remain in touch with occasional letters or phone calls, and now by Skype. She is not really my aunt, but given the title as a friend of the family, as is custom with Anglo-Indian families. Her husband, R, and my dad were school friends, many years ago in India. Although several years apart, they had established a friendship and were, by all accounts, quite the ne’er-do-wells. In an attempt to straighten him out and set him on the right track, R was sent to England by his family. The years went by, my dad and R lost touch ... my dad moved to England, my mother followed, I was born  and then my brother … and one day, quite by chance, the two men found themselves standing next to each other on the platform at a train station. I can only imagine how they felt; life as an immigrant can be quite lonely. No matter how full your life may become, a piece of you is irretrievably gone. For his part, R had also acquired a French wife and a child. This wife is the aunt with whom I am now staying. Our conversation covers the gamut from current events - watching the developing storms near Florida and Yemen - to relationships, and everything in between.

This afternoon I ventured out alone. I needed a haircut before I left Venice but thought I'd find time for such an activity whilst in Norwich. Now I was in dire need of both shampoo and haircut, so I decided to kill two birds with one stone. Speaking no Arabic and scant little French, I wasn't sure how this was going to go. But, success!!! My aunt and I had previously found a little shop whose owner professed to cut and style the hair of any gender. That seemed to include me. The price of 150 Dh ($15.) met my budget, and we set up an appointment. I came away with super shiny hair, blow dried and styled like it has never been before. That's not to say that it was anything glamorous or out of the ordinary, simply that my hair gets little ‘styling’ other than being threatened by the hairdryer, and a brush dragged through it! The vendors in the shops close to our apartment, having grown used to me by now, signalled their 'approval' by shouting “bella, bella” as I walked past them on my way home!

Lunch today was couscous, cooked with a vegetable stew (squash, courgettes/zucchini, chick peas/garbanzo beans  and carrots), all purchased for a ridiculously small sum in the medina, and a lamb curry that I had cooked. Our lazy dinner was shawarma and chips in the medina.

Today my aunt and I each learned one word; shawarma, and shukran. For the uninitiated, here's the wiki definition of shawarma. See if you can read it without salivating.

The vendors smile with their lips when I say ‘Merci,’ but they smile with their eyes when I say shukran.

May 24th: Slowing down

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Life in Essaouira is slow. After a week I may feel as though I  am sleepwalking. After 6 weeks I may need to be resuscitated! I tend to live life at a fast pace and have been told that I accomplish more before breakfast than many do in a day. So this will take some getting used to. Perhaps this is just what I need to aid in this recalibration of my life? I've always taken time to stop and smell the roses, watch the bugs at work. But now I'm really learning to slow down. There are no pressing needs, no appointments. Just life, and time ticking slowly by.

Our routine, thus far, consists of waking, having a leisurely breakfast, showering, walking the medina to buy food for lunch, returning home for a leisurely lunch, walking the medina to buy food for dinner, returning to the apartment to cook and have a leisurely dinner, walking the medina, returning home to catch up on the day's  news, going to bed, rinse and repeat … my blog is going to become awfully dreary… anyone care for a daily weather report?

My aunt insists on fruit throughout the day, so I am being plied with watermelon, kiwi, bananas... yet we pass by all the beautiful mangos. I will add them to the menu soon. We passed a cafe and she said their coffee is really bad -  it's Moroccan. When pressed for an explanation it transpires that it's Turkish. Yes, yes!!! That's what I want!!! I am not typically a coffee drinker, but Turkish coffee and a slice of baklava, oh happy memories of life in Dearborn, Michigan.

Today we went up on the rooftop to see the city spread below us. Then we walked to Bab Marrakech, the City wall, the ramparts, the port, and the fish market.  Bab means gate, and the medina has 4 gates - roughly corresponding to N,S, E and W, but none opens out to the sea. There are definitely more up-market areas of the medina, streets that are Americanised, the restaurants offering burgers and wi-fi. The port is being enlarged to allow for cruise ships… this way of life has, I'm sure, changed greatly in the past few decades. It will become unrecognizable once the cruise ships arrive.

We visited the artisans co-op area, quieter and less visited than the central streets, and watched seamstresses and carpenters at work. We strolled in and out of the tiny stores and visited an art exhibition in the turret of the ramparts. My aunt is French and belongs to the French institute, so we wandered in there and saw an exhibition of photos of “ethnicfolk” … the folk, in all but two photos, appear to be frowning at the camera, seemingly questioning why they're subjects of his camera.

The harbour, with its fish market, is a bustling place at all times of day, with arrays of freshly caught fish proudly displayed by the fishermen; conger eels, moray eels, rei, sardines - sardines everywhere, fried fresh by street vendors. The market is smelly and crowded; a loud and lively place - just as a good fish market should be! It is a place to see, but not necessarily a tourist destination as the walk through water sloshing with fish guts is not for everyone! The assortment of fish changes constantly yet, just as with my visit to the souk, I found all the vendors willing to tell me the names of the fish and to take photos when I asked.

The evening held a late night concert by Oum in the Place el Menzah, a square close by. It is Ramadan here, hence the vendors open up late and the streets are filled with celebration at night.

The local guide book offers the following snippets: the average temperature is 18°C (64°F), population is 80,000, taxicabs are un-metered and cost 6Dh (60 cents, 50 pence), “security is quasi-total.” The port was constructed in the 18th century, the Kasbah, armed with bronze cannons, to keep watch against invasion from the ocean.

Everyone here speaks French, so I stand next to my aunt, like an idiot child, understanding much but saying little… hopefully that will change.

The sun shines but offers little warmth, and the night's are downright cold.  It is a beautiful place, and the people friendly. I'm not sure it is somewhere I could live.

May 22nd - 23rd: Arrival in Essaouira, The Medina and The Souk.

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A good article about Essaouira

May 22nd- I spent an uneventful, and sleepless, night in Luton airport, dutifully walking through security at the allotted hour of 3.30am - only to discover that the flight would be delayed until 9.30am, courtesy of air traffic controllers on strike in France.The flight was thankfully uneventful and we arrived to a beautiful warm sunny Moroccan day at one of the loveliest airports I've ever seen. I then had the task of staying awake in the tiny terminal until the arrival of my aunt's flight some four hours later. She had left Paris the day before, but her flight was grounded in Madrid because of a cracked windscreen. They were flown to Bordeaux where they spent the night in luxury and put on another flight to Essaouira after I had already landed. It has been about 25 years since I last saw my aunt, but we recognised each other instantly and talked as though we did this on a regular basis. Her driver was unavailable so we caught a taxi to the flat, passing goats along the roadside! Her flat is in the medina. From my bedroom window I look down on shops and shoppers, yet it is not noisy. I feel like the luckiest girl alive!

We unpacked then walked through the medina, finding a lovely restaurant in which to dine on delicious lamb tajine.  The shops are all pocket sized, and inserted into odd shaped nooks and crannies. Our restaurant seated 8 people in a space barely larger than a small bedroom! Whilst waiting for our food to be served, the call to prayer sounded and we were told that our food would be delayed by 15 minutes because of Ramadan. It was worth the wait.

May 23rd - I slept in late - recovering from my journey - but awoke to find that my aunt had gone shopping and returned with croissants for breakfast. We ate our croissants, and bread & jam, with bowls of hot black coffee; very French. We determined that we needed provisions from the grocery store about 1.5 miles away, outside the medina, and that we should walk there and return by taxi.

I have just spent 3 weeks in Norwich, walking up and down cobblestoned hills at breakneck speed, so I knew I could handle this. However, I was soon reminded that I was with a French woman in Morocco… life moves at a slower pace… I am reading Robert Louis Stevenson’s Travels with a donkey in the Cevennes and feel he adequately describes our pace: “... it was something as much slower than a walk as a walk is slower than a run; it kept me hanging on each foot for an incredible length of time; in five minutes it exhausted the spirit and set up a fever in all the muscles of the leg.” But arrive at the grocery store we did - on the same day on which we had set out! and having had plenty of time to watch the dromedaries on the beach.

The grocery store contained few surprises, but much nicer smells; spices and peppers set out like a buffet bar. I hovered while my aunt made menu decisions I was happy to go along with… Ooh, lamb curry? Yes please! as I watched three steaks being sliced from a leg of lamb. Our taxi driver was obviously a D- student in taxi school, but he dropped us off at Bab Sbaa much as he had found us, perhaps a little more shaken, and we walked home through the medina. I don't know how my aunt finds her way around here, it is a daunting place; twisting and turning, alleys leading off alleys. One day I will ‘own’ this medina… I have 6 weeks to learn it. My mapping and orienteering skills will serve me well.

We had to go to the electronics shop - more laptop woes! and I had to run home to pick up my charger. Three objectives: find my way home, gain access to both building and apartment, return to the shop. Success in the first. Then I was left to struggle with the door to the building. Now, almost everyone in the street is in jeans or similar western gear. Some of the locals are more traditionally, but casually, dressed. As I wrestled with the key, the lock, and the door, a turbanned and exquisitely robed gentleman appeared, from thin air, to assist me. He pulled the door closed with a heavily jewelled hand, dealt deftly with the lock, and entry to the building was mine! Open sesame! and as I turned to thank him, he smiled and vanished. A splash of colour and elegance in a denim clad world. I grabbed my charger and ran back to the shop, happy to have accomplished all three objectives.

In the afternoon we walked to The Souk to price the fish, meat, and fresh fruits and veg. Essaouira is a port on the Atlantic, so the fish market was astounding. There were many fish I didn't recognise. But I do remember how to say “qu'est-ce que c’est?” and “merci” - with a smile...

May 19th: Royal Wedding Day

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We had scanned the internet  and the local papers to see what celebrations were on locally, but could find very little - no street parties, parties in village halls, nothing like that. So, we took ourselves off for a full English breakfast at The Woolpack pub, planning to stay and watch the wedding on tv. The breakfast of fried eggs, chips, sausages, grilled tomato, mushrooms, baked beans and real bacon was such a treat and filled us up for the entire day! American sausages and bacon simply do not compare; I remember buying bacon for the first time in America and wondering why they only sold streaky bacon. The pub was quiet but that didn’t stop the landlord and staff from goofing around wearing Harry and Meghan masks and hawking their Royal ale. We watched the wedding guests arrive and, as none present keep up with either the royals or celebrities, it was a bit of a guessing game. We did recognise John Major, George & Amal Clooney, Elton John and Fergie! The pub remained quiet so RL left to check out activities in the Cathedral. They had set up a tv in the nave, and were serving champagne, tea and biscuits - and there were plenty of people. I ran down to the Cathedral, impressed that after three weeks I kinda sorta know my way around. The Cathedral was full, but not packed. Everyone sang along with the hymns, the kids chased each other around the font, and families had packed picnic baskets for after the wedding. It was a lovely atmosphere.

With the wedding over, we raced across town to the Catholic Cathedral for the weekly  1.30pm tour of the tower... 280 narrow, winding, steps to a gorgeous view of the City, and another 280 steps back down. Gosh those steps really were narrow; I have small feet (size 3UK, 36 European, 6 USA) and the steps were too narrow to accommodate them. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the steps were only about 2ft wide. How they wound around in a dark and seemingly endless upward spiral, until suddenly we were on the rooftop, in the blinding sunlight, with a glorious view of Norwich. We had debated this excursion, wondering if it was a foolhardy adventure the day of a Barn Dance. But, surveying the view, we were glad we had seized this opportunity. Of course, the 280 steps down had us wondering about our sanity… we walked home at a leisurely pace and determined that a pot of tea and a couple of hours of nothingness was what was required before the Barn Dance.

Rl had reserved the car to get us to the Barn Dance at the Lingwood Village Hall & Social Club. He had never been to this dance, had never heard the band, and the caller was not mentioned on the flyer … but it was a dance, and it was nearby! The hall seemed relatively new, 60 tickets had been sold, and the attendance was a nice mix of old and young - including very young children who caught on very quickly and happily danced every dance. A man named Biggles was the caller, and Willowspin the band. The music was fantastic and the programme consisted of simple barn dance favourites: The OXO reel, Scatter promenade, Strip the willow, Johnson’s surprise, Walpole Cottage, Farandole, and others - many of which I call at dances, and a couple of simple ones that were new to me. It was a great evening, filled with laughter - just like a barn dance should be.

May 20th: Open Day at The Bishop’s garden, Norwich Cathedral

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We had a lazy morning, recovering from the activities of yesterday … my legs certainly knew I had climbed that tower. Funny, I didn’t feel that way after climbing the tower at Ely. Perhaps it was the additional 110 steps? The calendar indicated that the Bishop’s House Garden was open today should we feel so inclined. We did. The BIshop’s House Garden is open for a select few weekends in the year and a small admission fee is charged, but each open day is assigned a particular charity, and that charity can plan additional events and activities within the garden. Today was the turn for Hope into Action. Their website states that they “provide homes for the most vulnerable in society in partnership with local churches…. [their] model is built on the belief that when people have a safe, secure home surrounded by loving, non-judgemental relationships they will find the strength and motivation to make positive life choices.” We didn’t have a problem with that, so we forked over our £4.00 each and wandered in. What a wonderful site awaited us; the garden itself is beautiful, tended to by one head gardener and a few volunteers, but there were families and couples of assorted ages strolling the grounds.

I do love Norwich, it is a city, it feels like a City, there is movement all around, hustle and bustle, life in every alley, on every street, in every garden and every park. But it is also rural, and there are families everywhere, strollers being pushed up and down the cobblestone hills, in between the historic churches, elderly couples strolling hand in hand through the market or chatting over a slice of bakewell tart or cream tea at one of the many tea chops. I love that the Salvation Army has a cafe which sells cream teas for £3.50.

The activities on the lawn were mainly directed at the children - face painting, soccer goals, treasure hunts through the gardens, but there was also a used book stand. We did our best to avoid it, unsuccessfully. I do not need to make any purchases as I am travelling with one small backpack … but buy we did; a Welsh/English dictionary and a couple of novels for RL, and  a very slim copy of R.L Stevenson’s Travels with a Donkey in the Cévennes for me. The gardens were beautiful and included a box hedge maze, a mowed labyrinth with assorted wildflowers growing in it and a pear tree at the center, a jungle walk, and a “bambooserie” with assorted bamboo trees. There were alcoves covered with fading wisteria, the last of the bluebells, and roses bushes everywhere just waiting to burst into bloom - it would be lovely to return in a few weeks and see them.

Across the road from the garden is the Wig & Pen pub. They were serving Sunday roasts … we were unable to resist the temptation of sitting in the sunshine dining on roast beef, Yorkshire pud, roast potatoes, carrots, broccoli, cauliflower, cabbage and lashings of gravy… all washed down with a pot of tea? It was delicious and the perfect way to spend our final Sunday afternoon together. Late in the evening we thought it fitting to end this leg of my travels with a spot of tea and a slice of Battenberg cake. Mr Kipling, you do make “exceedingly good cakes” as the ad from my childhood goes...

May 8th: Seal watching at Blakeney Point

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May 8^th: Having checked the weather forecast, today seemed the best time to venture to the coast for a seal watching boat trip to Blakeney Point, revisiting a place from RL’s childhood. RL no longer owns a car but belongs to a car club - and it all appears very civilised. He pays a small monthly membership, then books the car in hourly increments. Time can be added or subtracted from the original reservation, in 15-minute increments, while you have the car - as long as no one else has it booked. The reservation fee is not high, you pay additional for the mileage, must return it in good condition … and someone else cleans and maintains it. It seems to work out cheaper than renting a car through a conventional company, and he has the benefit of reserving the same car each time.

We booked a Yaris hybrid and set off for Blakeney, arriving just in time to jump on the boat and head out to sea. We had reserved the trip through Ptarmigan seal trips, although there are a few other operators and all charge the same price. The small ferry boats leave from Morston Quay, are ruled by the tide and do not venture out into the cold North Sea but only as far as the limits of Blakeney Harbour. It took about twenty minutes for the boat to arrive at the Point, passing all manor of sailing boats as well as the lifeboat house and the 100-year old Mary, a former lifeboat. Blakeney Point is a four-mile-long sand and shingle spit joining the Norfolk coast at Cley-next-the sea. It is where grey seals and common seals come to have their pups. We didn’t see any pups, but quite a few seals. Some lazed on the sand, others cavorted in front of us … like dolphins, they are difficult to photograph – appearing like the Loch Ness monster in many of my photos! Expecting cooler weather along the coast, we had brought jackets and dressed warmly, only to be treated to Florida like temperatures.

Boat trip over we stopped briefly at the Stiffkey saltmarsh then ventured to Wells-next-the-sea (don’t you love these names?) - RL hoping for some Cromer crab, but settling for crab sandwiches and another seafood tray of cockles, mussels and whelks. I think I’ve had my fill of these now … but hopefully won’t have to wait another 34 years for such delights. I believe RL could go longer without trying whelks again. Whilst lunching on the seafront at Wells-n-t-s we joined the crowds watching a dredger at work; each questioning the other as to the procedure and objective. We walked around the small town enjoying the picturesque houses and then made for home …

But historic Georgian Holt was en route, so we stopped to explore then stopped for tea at the Black Apollo. Curious about the name, we learned that that was the name given to coffee by several 18^th century writers. Who knew! We spent ages exploring all the nooks and crannies at Holt and found ourselves in a little shop called Baron Art where I picked up a delightful little 1897 gem titled “The story of weather.” We stayed for what seemed like days, chatting to the owner, Anthony, as if to a long-lost friend. Continuing on our wanderings around town it was finally time for dinner and we settled on doner kebabs, carved from the spit, and chips. We sat on a park bench to eat them and then made for home …

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Passing Blickling Hall we stopped for a quick photo and arrived home safely, minutes before the Yaris turned into a pumpkin.

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