Less is More

As a child, my Dad would gaze out of windows and his mind would drift to a better place. He'd think of the summer and of the two weeks that he'd spend messing about in boats with his Ma, his Pa and his best friend, all on the Norfolk Broads.

Perhaps when banished, the imagination soars and finds a better place. My Dad grew up in Coventry. Coventry was bombed to bits in World War 2. It's a sprawling mass, with the soulless heart of a poverty stricken New Town. The Norfolk flatlands, lakes and sailboats were miles away, but they travelled as memories, dreams and sun-soaked fantasies.

As time passed, my Dad's window dreams became a permanent reality. His heart was set young, and never changed. He would buy a house of his own, within easy reach of the Norfolk Broads. He would gain a boat instead of a honeymoon. He would sail every Sunday and every Wednesday. At work, he would dream of boats. He lived the dream, he nurtured the dream and the dream made me what I am today.

Now, the dream is mine.

When the days draw in and my hands get cold, I imagine warm summer days on the Norfolk Broads.

With every light breeze, on a clear bright day, my heart belongs to my childhood home. I picture myself in a small rustic boat, bobbing about in a private offshoot. In an imagined moment, I'm at peace with the world. Tropical islands are nothing when you have the Norfolk Broads.

I gaze out of the window, and I repeat a past that's not my own. My mind will drift to a better place. I think of the teacher strikes and of days when I would go out on the water, alone, to sup on calm and unfettered freedom.

I would break the rules, but they never broke me.

The art of sailing was not for study, but for experimental escapism. My Dad won races, while I came last. We both hit land with the glee of achievement. For me, the race was the perfect setting for harmless mishaps, great adventures and tireless fun.

Every year, I still spend a small part of the summer on the Norfolk Broads. A van is hired, kayaks flung in, and the scene is set. Each moment 'on the water' forms the restoration of my soul. I return home, complete, carrying sustenance for the months ahead.

Already this autumn, I've spent many moments recalling a perfect August week, now some two months ago. Not a day passed, that week, when the sun wasn't queen of the skies, and a light breeze didn’t carry her warmth. I kayaked, sailed and devoured the views.

We stayed in a wonderful campsite in Thurne, and paddled to the ruins of St Benets Abbey. There, a giant oak cross filled the cow-lined sky, with majesty of a tall and wizened age-old tree.

From Ludham we paddled to How Hill nature reserve. Water gypsies sat in wooden boats eating hot tinned spaghetti and chatting like the birds in spring.

A trip from Martham took us to Heigham Sound, where only water, gulls and dragonflies glistened in our wake.

At Horsey Mere, we found a cut, a tiny river where only small boats can go. It took us to a derelict windmill near Waxham, and felt far away from the world. From wet arse to wet ears, I rippled inside with delight. A swim had called me in.

On the Saturday, the world welcomed us back into its fold, for the 'Alternative' Hickling Regatta. This yearly event carries the assurance of good-humoured calamity and endears me to its cheer. Unsinkable boats sink and experienced sailors get 'stuck in the reeds'. Broad and bloated Half-Deckers race slowly in their only event of the year.

The Commodore and Chief is no sailor boy. I'm not sure he even knows how. His boat, Lady Ann, runs on fuel. The night before the Regatta horn blows, he drives his land vehicle through local villages and knocks on doors. An event appears from nothing but good will, high spirits and a 'hey ho, give us a hand mate'. It's made of flags, a stopwatch and general confusion. The magic ingredient is a grubby captain's cap. When on the Commodore's head, a Regatta is born.

At the 'Alternative' Hickling Regatta, there is no fanfare. Medals are awarded for 'the furthest distance travelled by water and then not bothering to race'. Boats are allocated handicaps based on how well they sailed or didn't sail that day. It's a random affair, influenced by beer, reverse-nepotism and figures formed in the smoke of the misty Norfolk air.

The Regatta sets souls free. My Dad said, "Why not helm?" I captained my first ever race in a boat deemed unfit for the purpose. If I crashed it racing, the insurance company would say 'No'. The Half-Decker is an underdog in the racing world. I came last in a race of its kind. Cries of "You’re not over the line yet," were met with a slow but cheerful crossing. I'd already dropped the sail. Perhaps there should be a medal for that. At least I didn't bash the boat.

My Dad's 'Honeymoon' boat and my late Granddad's Half Decker sat side by side, the polished varnish shining in the sun. My Dad grinned all weekend. At times, his grey hair looked blond and his eyes just ten years old.

"Why don’t I move back to Norfolk?" I often ask myself.

Perhaps my Dad spent his childhood dreaming about the Norfolk Broads because he didn't live there. For him, Norfolk was a holiday retreat, a retreat from his Coventry existence. It was his thing to look forward to when life was tough, dull or cantankerous. It became his tonic and remains so to this day.

Now, I spend my adult life dreaming about the Norfolk Broads. It's my thing to look forward to when life is cold, demanding or awkward. The Norfolk flatlands, lakes and sailboats may be many miles away, but they travel as memories, dreams and sun-soaked fantasies. Perhaps they taste better that way.

Perhaps when banished, the imagination soars, captures the best parts of life, purifies them, and keeps a whimsical human sane.

Perhaps less is more.

Fabpants Recommends:
Before I recommend any music, if the above isn't endorsement enough, visit Norfolk. You don't have to go in a boat, but it helps. This year, as in every other, I did much, much more.

I rode on a miniature train from Wroxham to Alysham and bicycled back along the railway line.

I visited an Art Exhibition in various venues across Norwich, a fine city to be sure. The theme was identity and intense imagery is imprinted on my brain. At Norwich Castle, I saw Zbigniew Libera’s amazing LEGO box art, depicting concentration camps and the holocaust. The real life LEGO sets, developed with the LEGO Corporation of Denmark, included gas chambers and skeletons.

At Norwich Forum, an exhibition included photographs of asylum seekers living in a Butlin’s holiday camp . Butlins mugs were visibly for sale in a shop selling rice, milk and basic essentials. "A memento of your stay?"

At Fritton Lake, I played pitch and putt, bounced on a giant pillow, and picnicked on a rowboat. There is an amazing Norfolk scented Ghost Walk at Fairhaven, which we still talk of to this day. Finally, not to be missed, is the seafront mayhem of Great Yarmouth. It's a sandy, sugar-coated gem of flashing lights and family fun.

And, on a musical note, I do believe I’ve found my album of the year. It's Jamie T's 'Kings & Queens'. It's bloody brilliant.

Download MP3: Jamie T – Emily’s Heart (sorry, this link has died)