Norfolk churches at New Year

We packed quite a lot into 1 and 2 January up in North Norfolk - a familiar route from Lower Southrepps to Cromer for the fireworks on New Year's Day, starting with the usual perspective of St Michael's tower up across the fields,

and on a duller sequel, weatherwise only, indulgence of my heart's desire to see the famous medieval screen at Ranworth, the most elaborate in the county.

Norwich on New Year's Eve was a disconcerting mix of bleak-midwinter lanes and lights with way too many homeless people, all of the ones I met touchingly friendly (though as I well know Norwich has a big drugs problem). We were there to spend the greater part of the evening at the house of friends Kate and Fairless in Norwich, where I got to meet a poet I much admired, and whose The Photographer at Sixteen I'd just chosen as one of my books of the year, George Szirtes, and his equally friendly and interesting wife, the artist Clarissa Upchurch. Back in Jill's garden, we got simple pleasures from waving sparklers around at midnight - I was thankful not to be in hospital, as I was at the same time a year ago - and then set out not too early the next morning, heading for lunch at the Vernon Arms up the hill in Southrepps village. The sun popped in and out through mists and cloud, eclipse-like.

We spent far too long over lunch, and sunset seemed not too far off when we left. The light was pleasingly on the west tower of St Michael,

and a lingering sunset gave us various lights over the fields.

Walking along a favourite lane parallel with the lovely woods at Frogshall, the moon was apparent

and gnarled trees foregrounded the view back down the hill.

Dawdling a bit, thanks to the camera, behind the others, I took what intuitively seemed a left turn at a road when I should have taken a right. At least I had a good perspective on Northrepps.

After the village, I fell in with a very jolly couple, Sue and David, who had come out for a brief spin with their lively rescue dog, Tyler. They decided to accompany me all the way to Cromer before they turned back along the beach. It was a joy to see Tyler cavorting around the golf course on the way up to the cliffs. We enjoyed the high beam of the lighthouse before descending towards a seaside town that seems to be really on the up again.

They'd loaned me their mobile phone - I'd left mine in the cottage - to contact the others, so we knew we'd meet up at the church where on a previous occasion we'd so enjoyed the party spirit within.

Now I was too late for tea and cakes, but not for the fireworks, which did their usual stuff from the pier,

after which we took a packed train, full of human interest, back to Gunton.

The next morning Jill drove the same route she'd taken to the start of the Churches Walk in September. This time she proceeded beyond Wroxham to a Broadside road towards Ranworth; we were heading for edifices that wouldn't join up so easily on a future walk, due to the disposition of the Broads and channels blocking direct routes. We stopped along the way at the fascinatingly-named Woodbastwick. Bast is a substance found under the bark of lime trees; Danish and Saxon invaders used it for binding in leggings, seen being tied on the village sign.

A green with thatched houses around it is attractive. The church, which goes by a unique dedication to SS Fabian and Sebastian, has a loved, used feel about it, but as it was heavily restored by George Gilbert Scott in 1878-9, there's not a lot to see here, though the Victorian and Edwardian glass is attractive enough. The setting's the thing, the south porch approached via an avenue flanked by some splendid old yews.

The exterior of St Helen's Ranworth barely hints at the treasures within (though why would it? It's handsome enough, not especially grand).

The screen's one of several extraordinary treasures here. You (that is, I) may prefer the angelic ensemble of nearby Barton Turf, with its radiant seraphim and cherubim, which we saw - but not really for long enough - back in September. Undeniably, though, the complete arrangement here is grander, running the full width of the nave. On the main panels in the centre are the twelve Apostles. Left side, with St Stephen to the left, Simon, Thomas, Bartholomew, James the major, Andrew and Peter,

Right side: Paul, John, Philip, James the minor,  Jude and Matthew.

Either side, assorted saints and martyrs both in niched spaces backing altars, seasonably adorned on 2 January. I've clearly missed out on the left altar but here on the right are Mary Salome, the Virgin Mary, Mary Cleophas and Margaret of Antioch.

The angels above come close to the loveliness of Barton Turf.

Indented, and perhaps finest of all, in the centre entrance to the choir are two saints facing each other: George with the dragon

and Michael

with his feet on the seven-headed beast of the Apocalypse.

This saint is especially appropriate in his anniversary year: Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury.

though the details on Saints Jude, Matthew and Laurence are perhaps more interesting from a painterly point of view.

We have the iconoclasts' habit here of covering the faces in brown paint rather than scratching them out to thank for the saintly ones' survival. Above, on the ribbed coving is a design of local flowers so fresh I assumed it was of a more recent provenance; apparently not, in essence.

The return stalls have a few good misericords

while on the back of the screen behind, a floral design was revealed relatively recently

and the cantor's desk, which I assumed was a later relic, is from the same time, with an eagle and the opening words of St John's Gospel on one side

and on the other a versicle in plainsong.

Looking at the postcards, I was wondering where the obviously wondrous illuminated antiphonary, c. 1400, was lodged. It turned out to be in an unassuming glass case to the left of the south door. You'd have thought this was too precious to remain in an out-of-the-way church and might be more likely to be found in Cambridge's Fitzwilliam Museum, but no, here it is. and open at the most appropriate of the 19 miniature paintings (another featured Jonah and the whale). It's photographed rather well through glass without flash.

We had lunch at a more or less deserted place by Ranworth Broad which clearly caters for mass diners at spring and summer weekends, but at least it had kept a good sign with a design that could almost be by Ravilious.

Then, as gloom and mizzle seemed to be setting in, we abandoned plans for a walk and drove to see two/three more churches on our way to Norwich to catch the train back to London. South Walsham is a long way from North, a small village and not a town, but with two adjacent churches.

St Lawrence (closest in the picture), which was burnt out in 1832 and its chancel rebuilt by 1832; it's now a craft centre where local ladies hardly welcomed us as we walked in with a cheerful 'hello', so we didn't linger. St Mary has a Perpendicular south porch with a Coronation of the Virgin in the niche above the entrance.

There's also some nicely coloured Edwardian glass, including an unusual personification of Astronomy by R. O. Pearson.

Acle, further south, sounds rustic but no longer is, sprawling along several main roads and its church tower not prominent enough to help you find the building easily. But it lives in its own rather lovely little world, trees lining the pathway to the north porch, and the whole seemingly remote in the gloaming. The round tower has an octagonal 13th century (says Pevsner; 15th century according to Harrod and Linnell) top storey surmounted by statues.

We couldn't find a light switch other than for the porch, so the inspection of St Edmund's gems was also atmospheric, by the light of mobile phones. The font, donated in 1410, is surely one of the best in Norfolk, with four lions and four wild men (wodewoses), identical to the ones in Happisburgh's St Mary, but with remnants of paint still on them.

Around the bowl are (thus Pevsner) 'four angels and the Pietà, the Trinity and further angels with the Emblems of the Trinity and the Instruments of the Passion'.

The rood screen boasts a dado wih pretty ornamentation including multiple IHSes.

This double-headed bench-end looks good by mobile light.

Below the north chancel window are a brass to John Swinne (died 1533)

and above it, not really to be made out in the photo, an early 15th century Latin inscription  from a time of plague.

The translation - for which I'm indebted to Simon Knott's Norfolk Churches site goes thus:

Oh lamentable death, how many dost thou cast into the pit!
Anon the infants fade away, and of the aged Death makes an end.
Now these, now those, thou ravagest, O Death, on every side;
Those that wear horns or veils, Fate spareth not.
Therefore, while in the world the brute beast Plague rages hourly,
With prayer and with remembrance deplore Death's deadliness.

May it not become an incantation in time of Coronavirus.

Very hilly, Sheringham

As opposed, of course, to 'very flat, Norfolk' - which, in the north-east, it is definitely not. The Holt/Cromer ridge, sloping down from wooded tops to fertile pasture and cliffs, was a plaything for local boy Humphrey Repton, 'humanising, as well as animating, beautiful scenery' with his landscaping, declaring it 'my most favourite work' - and that from a distinguished list of 200.

Our Sheringham Rundweg, taking in woods, cliffs, town, the beach where we swam and a fine country church, began at the National Trust car park. The classic view of the park and house was not to come until towards the end. We began by walking through central woodland with very tall trees - conifers, Spanish chestnuts, oaks and beeches, even the odd monkey puzzle tree.

Soon we were fringing the wood, with isolated clumps of trees in a clearer landscape

and then the coast,

looking towards Weybourne Windmill and the north sea.

Couples were sitting on benches waiting for the steam train to pass and complete a classic view, but since we pressed on, turning from east to south where you can just make out the wind turbines out at sea

past a traditional way of forest management,

some virgin beech leaves on a branch shooting out from a knotty clump

and down towards the sea past poppy-fringed fields,

we only saw the train looking back.

Then it was out on to the cliffs which make such a marked contrast on this part of the coast to the saltmarshes and dunes of the north-west. Swallows were shrieking and swooping in abundance

while the view back reveals a steady climb (the top photo shows where to, the highest point on the coast)

and I even saw a solitary puffball mushroom near the cliff edge.

Sheringham prides itself on clean beaches - what will happen when (if, inshallah) we leave the EU?

We walked back along the lower sea front to find a spot sheltered by a windbreaker from which Cally and I could launch out for the obligatory swim, the beach proper occupied only by black-headed gulls.

I liked the vibe of Sheringham, the attention to detail in the muralising of its sea walls

and on this cafe front - we'll let Ellie off her non-punctuation for the piquancy of the graphics. I had no idea that Einstein, fleeing Hitler in 1933, found shelter in Roughton on Cromer Heath.

There's even an excellent coffee shop for us townies, serving its own roast, and of course the best fish and chips (competition between three chippies within close vicinity is strong). The next stretch meant walking along a road for about a mile until we reached Old Sheringham, very discreet, with its church nicely set below the park ridge.

I may be pre-empting a future Norfolk churches walk - next one due, in two Saturdays' time, should take us further east along the coast if the weather's fine - but it's time for some bench ends. All Saints is big, light and airy, 'full of interesting things,' as Betjeman notes. Clearly I should have paid more attention to the rood screen, but I was seduced by details like this mermaid, close by the table near the door.

Further east, off the central aisle, are a cat with a kitten in its mouth,

a swaddled figure (whether baby or corpse is debated) beneath an unusual face

and various mythical beasts like this dragon.

The memorial to Abbot Upcher (died 1819), who commissioned Repton to landscape the estate, is by Bacon Junior and Samuel Manning. Thus Pevsner: 'Hanging monument of considerable size. White marble. A disconsolate woman lies over a broken column and a dead branch'.

Upcher, encourged by Repton to let the local people gather wood on the estate in part of an attempt to strike 'a happy medium between Licentious Equality and Oppressive Tyranny' (big deal, we shrug now, but it no doubt was then),  also provided the handsome reservoir outside, dedicated prematurely to the 'year of peace' 1814,

and with a handsome flint-walled basin behind the facade

A short walk up a lane leads you back to National Trust land, the boldest sweep of Sheringham Park.

More puffballs here as we climbed the hill

and then a fine view, as Repton intended, from the Temple as featured in his Red Book but not actually completed in his lifetime (the present replica dates from 1975).

Sheringham Hall, now in private hands, faces inland. As the National Trust guide puts it, presumably paraphrasing before quoting Repton, 'a sea view might be pleasant in the Bay of Naples, but not in the harsh climate of the north Norfolk coast: "Can it ever rain in Paradise?" '

And then, into the woods again.

Back at base, the nice man in the National Trust shop helped me to identify two species which had intrigued us on Jill's new pond in Lower Southrepps: the iridescent thing spinning rapidly in circles was a whirligig beetle, and though I was familiar with this creature, good to have its exact, if obvious, title: red-eyed damselfly.

Not finished with north Norfolk yet - and we'll be back there for the big annual walk, which will merit a couple more churches to be featured here by way of canvassing for sponsorship.