Tuesday 6th July 2010

In the morning a team of opportunist ducks showed up outside our caravan window. Perhaps they have been drawn by the smell of toast. Ed and I dropped some bread down from our windows which they devoured. Later, they came back with their mates.

We set off for Wells next to the Sea, attracted to it by its working model steam railway. First we looked for something to stop to eat. The lady and the tourist office couldn’t express a preference but while handing over a map of the town, quietly conceded that she dines herself at the Globe Inn. We were glad to have something that didn’t feature chips too prominently and Ed happily ate his breadsticks and hummus. The place, a brightly renovated pub, was pricey mind.

With our map of Wells for directions we surprised ourselves by making it to the model train station in time for one of its infrequent departures. We folded Sam’s buggy into a compartment elsewhere and sat in a cabin, its upper sides exposed. I sought to contain Ed who had a preference for sticking his head outside in the air. I suggested that the train was going at a slow enough pace that, if we fell off, we would survive with just a few bumps and bruises. This did not reassure Jan.

The scenery offered little: banks of thistles and weeds, sometimes a field of cabbage plantations to really get our pulses racing. When we arrived at Walsingham we soon decided that there was little to reason to linger (the tourist office did say that there was a route of pilgrimage) and while the same train was stationary we sought a windowed cabin for the return journey.

Back in Wells we walked back to the car park by the coast. There was a car next to us, parked within its lines but not offering much space to open our back door wide enough for a baby in a car seat. I accomplished this but not before Jan said, in a raised voice, Some People are really Thoughtless in how they Park their Cars. People’s heads turned and the passenger window in the responsible car started whirring down leaving me to elaborate on Jan’s views. I was relieved for it not to reveal fugitive killer Raoul Moat or any other broad necked, shaved headed sort who may not take criticism on the chin (‘Police have warned the public not to get involved in parking disputes with Moat after a father was shot at’). The lowered window revealed a mild mannered Dutch chap. ‘Is anything the matter?’ he asked. My wife was frustrated at the lack of space, I relayed before civilly turning down his offer to move the car.

Whilst in Wells we bought a growbag for Sam in the only colours available – pink. Any photos of him in this are obviously to be stored and shown to his girlfriends a decade plus hence.