Day 9: Burnham Deepdale to Hunstanton

Last day of the walk, Burnham Deepdale to Hunstanton, the end of the trail. Up with the lark (or should I say the pigeon - God they are so loud!) at 4.45 am. I make a brew and eat a bread roll and butter for breakfast and I bin the almost empty gas canister that I won’t need again. I put fresh plasters on my somewhat blistered feet and at 6 am I am on my way, wanting to do as much of the remaining 12 ½ mile walk before the noon-day sun bears down.

 As I set out on the path along the saltmarshes of the Manor of Brancaster my body casts a long shadow in front me, with the bright sun shining low on the eastern horizon directly behind me. I march for half an hour by the empty boats and lobster pots till I come to Brancaster Staithe’s small harbour, with shabby worksheds and a café that offers fresh fish and lobster all closed up at this early hour. It is a brilliant sunny morning with cloudless blue skies. The path goes on along the marsh, and on the left I come to the earthworks of the Branodunum Roman Fort, a 3rd century settlement that was used to protect and control shipping around the coast. How different the coastline must have appeared then. This path would have been the sea shore, not half a mile inland by a marsh.

Reed stack

Further on reedbeds dominate the marsh. In the winter months (December - April) the common reed is still cut for thatch and other purposes. Modern methods favour a mower like machine over the traditional scythe. The reeds are then bundled and stacked under tarpaulins. Cutters combine reed cutting with other self employed activities like woodworking and agronomy to provide year round employment. The cutter’s employment is threatened by cheaper reeds coming in from Asia, Eastern Europe and Africa. 80% of the reed used for thatching in this country comes from abroad. The North Norfolk Reed Cutters Association is looking into new uses for their product, like fencing. http://norfolkreed.co.uk


The path points inland and I find myself in Brancaster village proper. The place has been nicknamed Chelsea-on-Sea because of the influx of wealthy 2nd homebuyers in recent times. I’m told that at weekends the fancy pedigree dogs on parade make it more like Crufts-on-Sea. With not a soul about at 7.30 in the morning I am spared an opportunity to be irritated by the Henries and Virginias of Brancaster.


Going east along the A149 a small arrow on a telegraph pole points inland, but I am not sure this is for the coastal path or some other route, so I’m reluctant to wander from the road that points to Hunstanton. A tarmacced path along the road makes for easy walking in the sun. Coasthopper buses go by in both directions. I come toTitchwell, a village notable for a number of simple municipal looking red brick houses with green painted gables and privet hedges that I am quite taken with; a change from the usual flinty facades. An old fellow approaches carrying a big hedge trimmer and I ask him as he goes past if I’m near the coastal path. Without looking at me he pauses, breathes out, and says with great weariness “you’re orn it, you carn’t go alorng the beach”. Quite what can weary a man so much at 7.30 in the morning I don‘t know. Getting up, I suppose.

On the right seaward side there are wheat fields and a saltmarsh nature reserve that I have seen signposted. Then I come to Thornham. Their folksy village sign on the green depicts a blacksmith in his forge, hammer raised over an anvil. I make my first stop of the day on a shaded bench, have some water and fruit pastilles, and catch the waft of toast on the breeze from a nearby kitchen.

Heading for Hunstanton

A bit further down by the bus stop an acorn sign points me back towards the coast, and I learn that I have missed a bit of the coastal path that went inland – there’s no going back now. Over a wooden bridge over a ditch I cross reedbeds by a red gravelly path. Then it’s left and up on a sea defence getting closer to the sea. With the beach approaching, signs warn of the danger of being caught on raised sandflats as the tide comes in. I hit a long sea defence path that stretches out almost as far as you can see, running parallel to the coast. On my left there is an enormous stack of reeds. Eventually the path bears right and a beautiful small lake emerges, again surrounded by reeds. Here is located Holme Bird Observatory, and I take a second stop at a sheltered bench.


Going on I enjoy the shade of pine trees that grow alongside the nearby dunes. A sign points to the Holme Nature Reserve Visitor Centre, but it doesn’t open for half an hour, and I press on, sensing that I am making strong progress along the final stage of my walk, and not wishing to resist my desire to make the finishing line in good time. I still stop and look regularly though, and take photographs, sometimes walking back little ways to get desired shots, as I have done along the whole walk. My camera now carries a precious digital cargo of 1163 images collected since my departure at Stratford eight days ago.

Near Holme

The path takes me to the top of the dunes for a fresh view of the beach and sea. The dunes are separated off from the beach by a meandering wooden staked fence. A passer by confirms that the white tower I can see on the cliff on the horizon is the old lighthouse at Hunstanton. It is only about two or so miles off, and I feel a rising elation at being so near to the end of my journey. I bash on with renewed energy, and soon come to the signpost marking the beginning of the Peddars Way. This path starts 47 miles inland at Knettishall Heath, follows an ancient roman road for much of the way, and joins the North Norfolk Coastal path at this very point.


My pace slows considerably as the path turns to soft sand between the Hunstanton Golf Club course and the Old Hunstanton beach. With over an hour till noon though there is no need for unnecessary toil, and I relax on the porch of a shuttered beach hut and shoot the breeze, in a solitary, silent, satisfied kind of way.


I climb over the dunes and out onto the flat sands of the beach, where a smattering of holidaymakers are enjoying the sunshine. The tide, as always it seems, is out, out, out. I had anticipated I would take a celebratory dip when reaching Hunstanton beach, but again my simple minded desire to reach the finish of the walk overrides this more edifying option. I climb up to where the path continues on the rising cliff going up to the old lighthouse. Past the lighthouse the cliff bends round and a seagull glides past. Warning signs behind the cliff fence, sun bleached Samaritans posters (“need someone to talk to?”) and one makeshift memorial cross marked “Ritchie” tells me that some who have passed this way have made it their life’s last step.


As the grassy cliff top curves further round I see the great expanse of The Wash ahead of me, and the far Lincolnshire coast. Then down a little way by a seaside café I stop by the sign marking the end (or, coming from the other direction, the beginning) of the path. I get my camera out to snap a celebratory picture of myself and I’m quickly offered assistance with this by an elderly group leaving the café. I chat to them a bit about my walk, and accept a bit of congratulation. One comments on his inability to walk much at all these days, and I acknowledge my own good health and good fortune, a few blisters and insect bites notwithstanding.


So I have completed my mission. Hardly conquering the north face of the Eiger I know. The weather has been enormously kind, and the flat terrain is easy meat for walkers; nevertheless I allow myself some satisfaction at completing the journey, as I certainly did while on it. I took nine days when I could have taken four, but the trip was all the better for that, I’d say. Hunstanton looks a nice seaside town, but the walk done I can’t muster interest or energy to explore or appreciate it – it feels academic now – Hunstanton will have to keep for another day. Within an hour I am on a bus to Kings Lynn, and then on the train to Kings Cross Station and home. I’ll definitely do another walk some time, maybe a bit more ambitious, maybe a little hillier? Or maybe I’ll do the Weavers Way going south from Cromer, down to Lowestoft and wild camping on the Suffolk Coast? Maybe next time it will rain? Next time I may even bring a map.

Hunstanton