I wake up to the alarm at twenty past seven, take one look out of the window, and slump back into the warm embrace of my bedsheet.
Three hours pass and I stumble out of bed, rubbing my eyes like a child. And I’m on the road, gliding past the twin blue bins standing to attention at the end of each driveway I pass. Its Friday.
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I pause in the market for a moment, lamenting its quietness as I weave my way through the locked stall-fronts to find the herb and spice stall.
“Are you busy these days?”
“Busy as ever. I’m here to ween off humanity’s need to eat. Starting with Tom over there.”
The old grey man nods over to Tom, a younger, neat man in charge of the wine stall behind me. Tom gives no response except a small curling at the corners of his mouth. The grey man puffs and mumbles quietly, I watch his moustache wriggle as if it has a life of its own. Thirty grams of mint. Thirty grams of mixed herbs. Thirty grams of peppercorns. And I’m out of the market.
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Locking my bike by Blackfriars Bridge, I cross, instantly noticing the information board with a helpful map telling me I’ve gone the wrong way. Spinning on a heal I head back past my bike. I notice a grand old building with grey and yellow signs on it. Technical institution. So, this is what NUA looks like. Far closer to the traditional Hogwarts look of British universities than the cubic concrete of the sixties I’ve come to know and love.
I walk past New Mills Sluice, removing my earbuds to listen to the roar of the water crashing down through the turbines. Danger, automatic sluices. Danger, fast flowing water. Strong currents. No access beyond this point.
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I carry on past a lovely red bridge made by some people called Barnard, Bishop and Barnard in 1882.
I continue onto the Marriott Way, a heritage trail stretching around twenty-six miles through the countryside to the village of Aylsham.
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“When we want to, you know, have an outdoor party, we gotta book it off work two weeks in advance and then the weather’s always crap on the day, so people don’t turn up!”
“Oh we always have people turn up whatever the weather…”
The end of their conversation is cut off as I march on ahead, leaving the two young ladies behind.
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I carry on at a brisk pace, enjoying the flatness of the path which was once a railway line.
Behind me I gradually hear a rattling sound getting louder and louder. Glancing over my shoulder I see a man in a wheelchair with bright blue headphones over a head encased in a beanie. We carry on further, and a couple hundred metres later he overtakes me. I smile, thinking it best not to challenge him to an arm wrestle. I shake my head and laugh to myself, feeling slightly embarrassed that I was surprised to see him roll past me. That must be a good feeling. Knowing that you’re defying people’s unspoken, subconscious bias. I watch him overtake a couple more people in front of me. They don’t react. But he knows. He knows they’re surprised.
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Three kilometres pass, and I see clothes and blankets hanging from the branches to the right. A makeshift home with cotton walls, grassy floorboards, roof tiled with twigs.
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On the large black A-frame bridge
Someone has written freedom.
Very small.
In pink.
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After getting lost in the marshes when the footpath was closed for maintenance, I climb through a hedge and found my way back to the path. A red fungus winks at me from the log on the side of the path.
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A father rattles along a muddy section of the path towards me, daughter nestled safely in the chair strapped behind him.
“Can you make that noise again?”
“Does it sound funny? I think I can only do it on the bumpy bits…”
The two disappear behind me, as the father lets out a playful ‘ah’, his voice quivering like a daisy in the wind.
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I reach a bend in the river where someone has strung a rope up high in a tree, creating a swing that hangs down over the water. The river flows calmly here, with barely a ripple to disturb its surface. But I can see from leaves and sticks that drift past that the current is strong, pulling determinedly down towards the centre of Norwich, and on until it reaches the sea.
“Are you going swimming?” A voice from downstream.
“Not today, I’ll come back when it’s a bit warmer.”
“It’s lovely and warm today!”
He is a bright, bald man. Early middle-aged, possibly late thirties.
“Are you swimming?”
“Just tested the temperature, its six degrees. It’s been as low as two here before!”
“Oh wow yeah, that’s not too bad.”
“Have you swum here in summer before?”
“No, actually this is the first time I’ve been here.”
“I found this place a few weeks ago, I swim here quite often.”
And with that he strips off, wades into the water and, after a moment’s pause, plunges in with a soft clear splash.
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He makes his way upstream to me. Breaststroke.
“Alright mate, how are you doing?”
His eyes sparkle with the gleam of adventure. His expression is warm, welcoming, and not remotely disturbing. I sense just the right level of disinterestedness in his tone. It doesn’t matter that I’m here.
“I’m great thanks, how are you?”
“Yeah good, my name’s Mark, what’s your name?”
“My name’s Fin, how’s the water?”
“Oh its lovely. You know, its just what you get used to. Recently the rivers been two, four degrees, so that’s what I’m used to. It’s six degrees now, and if I tell someone six degrees, they’ll go what that’s crazy, but for me it feels that little bit warmer.”
“Yeah I get that, it’s all about perspective.”
“So what do you do mate?”
“I’m studying English Literature at the university.”
“That’s UEA is it?”
“Yes.”
“Oh right, so you’re just at home at the moment.”
“Well I’m in student accommodation…”
“Yeah, but you’re just, you know, online. You don’t go in for lectures?”
“Yeah it’s all online, its so shit.”
“Yeah that must be really crap.”
“It’s ridiculous.”
“But I guess what’s the alternative…its not like you can go travelling at the moment.”
“Yeah, I had my gap year last year and half of that was cancelled when covid came.”
“Yeah I was actually travelling around swimming and had to come back. That’s what I do you see, I go around swimming, but I just came to Norfolk during the lockdown, because there’s good swimming spots here.”
“Whereabouts did you go?”
“Oh all over the place, you know… I go Canada a lot, Vancouver Island. I’ve got a house in Cyprus so I’m there often too, but I was also swimming in India recently…”
“Cyprus must be warm!”
“Yeah Cyprus is lovely, good in Spring and Autumn.”
“Canada though, that must be freezing!”
“Actually, it’s like the Mediterranean. Vancouver Island you know, it’s pretty far south so yeah its like the Mediterranean. You get bears and cougars and everything there.”
“Wow that’s crazy! I’d love to go to places like that.”
“Do you swim in rivers a lot?”
“Yeah, Norfolk is great for rivers, lots of lovely spots just like this one. I was swimming in the Yare this morning. Just me and a load of old fat ladies.”
“Oh great!”
“Yeah, seems to be just a group of old ladies in the mornings, so if that’s what you’re into you know where to go!”
He laughs.
I join him, surprised.
“It’s the fat layer you see, guys like you would probably struggle cus you don’t have that extra fat layer to keep you warm. Girls are normally alright, but for you guys its more of a challenge to stay warm.”
“Yeah, a few of my friends swim all year round, but they’re all girls.”
“Yeah but they don’t go in like this. They don’t wear all that neoprene gear and wetsuits and stuff?”
He’s proud.
“No, no wetsuits.”
“Yeah, because that’s kind of cheating really. I get it with all the surfing and windsurfing, but all that neoprene gear is just too much effort for me. Its much more refreshing this way.”
“Yeah, definitely. Much more refreshing.”
“Alright then Fin mate, I’m gonna head downstream.”
“Alright cheers mate, enjoy!”
And with that he somersaults away. Ducking under water and flipping his feet up, resurfacing a couple metres downstream. He does this three times, rolling like a barrel and allowing the current to take him back downstream to where he left his clothes.
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I finish my lunch and walk on to Drayton. Tired and wary of the dwindling sunlight, I turn on the power and speed back the way I came.
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Seeing everything from two angles, once on the outward journey, once on the return.
Gives a different perspective.
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“Is it flooded all along?”
“Nah, its just those four big puddles there, make sure your laces are done up mine tried to jump off me.”
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I listen to Rodriguez through my headphones, smiling at his genius.
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Two men. Playing the mouth organ stand down by the rivers edge. One with a bushy moustache.
“Alright mate”
I walk on. Nearly back now.
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On the bridge near where I left my bike, I hear a homeless man with a brightly painted guitar ask a lady for a pen. I watch her disappear over the bridge. To her, I’m a nobody. The man with the guitar doesn’t even exist.
I rummage in my backpack and grasp the plastic biro with my fingertips.
“Here, did you say you needed a pen?”
“Yes mate! That’s very kind of you!”
I smell alcohol.
“No worries, not at all.”
His face is weathered like rock, his hands, clawlike. He’s sitting on the bridge next to a tidy man in a blue fleece.
“This is xxxx here, he just bought me a fourpack! What a great guy eh? Just brought me a fourpack.”
As he slurs and gestures to the green plastic bag on the floor, I forget the name.
Xxxx leaves to go and find his phone. He’ll be right back. Stay where you are.
I stay a while and listen to the man with the painted guitar tell me lewd jokes from a small black book. A thick local accent and an even thicker layer of alcohol blur his words like fog on a window and I miss the punchline a couple of times. But his joyful cackle rings out wildly over the river Wensum and between the buildings of NUA on either side. I laugh along with him, noticing how we are drawing concerned looks from the passers-by.
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Someone catches my eye with a look of concern.
I beam at them.
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Then I bid my farewell to the man with the guitar, leaving him laughing with his book and his pen.
I cycle home.
Ecopark – Hanoi