Whilst walking with my wife and dog along the sea front at Hunstanton I came across a small community of wooden houses squeezed between a caravan park and the sea wall, some available as Holiday Homes and some of them looking permanently occupied. As we strolled down the sparsely occupied seafront I was Immediately reminded of those English beach side holidays reminiscent of my childhood. Here was a little piece of heaven, a necklace of tiny dwellings winding it’s way around the coastline of the Wash, bathed in sunlight their windows and colored surfaces sparkling under a rising sun.
I took out my trusty compact to take a few shots but it’s little zoom lens did the scene no justice and with a shrug of the shoulders and a tiny Hummph I told myself to come back at the same time tommorow and try again with my SLR and the new 24mm lens I’d bought before the trip.
It was late afternoon of the first of seven days we had to relax and soak up the tranquil atmosphere and salt air that wafted gently along the seafront, bending the grasses and clipping the tops off the incoming waves, it seemed the perfect place to spend a quiet week with my two best friends, we just needed the weather to hold and all would be Tickety Boo.
After an hour of walking we arrived back at the caravan I hired for the week, and sat outside on it’s raised deck with a drink and allowed what was left of the day to gently slip away under a lovely orange Sun until it sank below the horizon.
I was feeling more than happy with my choice the location of which was unique to the UK, Hunstanton is famouse for, A – Not having it’s Victorian Pier anymore, (it was washed away in a storm or something) and B – it’s Red Stripped Cliffs holding up the towns promenade, which was also being washed away by erosion and now had an ugly concrete wall along part of its base to prevent it from falling into the sea.
With the light fading and my stomach sending distress messages to my legs I decided we ought to eat, so I jumped into the car and drove all the way round the corner to the local fish and chip shop for what I hoped would be an wholly enjoyable supper that almost became a ‘heart attack’.
I was in luck, the shop was empty and I walked briskly to the counter for service.  ” Hi Fella” they say that around here; apparently, What can I get you.!  Errrrrrrrrr, I stopped myself from pointing out the obvious, I was too hungry for the ensuing banter and asked for; “fish and chips twice please” then waited for the, “OK but I heard you the first time”. Joke.
There you Go, That’s ten quid please ! Oh Right I said then took out the money and nailed it to the counter. And then I had one of those moments were you freeze and talk to your inner self, WTF I it didn’t cost much more than that in fuel to drive the 240 miles from Manchester, Bloody hell..!  and then a moment later I was alright again. Just to rub salt & vinegar into the wound each portion came in it’s own cardboard box with the name of the establishment emblazened on the front, ‘The Happy Pirate Chippy’ and then I was upset again.
On the up side they were very tasty, on the down side I didn’t get enough to completely satisfy my hunger so I grumbled to my wife in the hope I might receive counciling in the form of an alcoholic drink, I got fizzy pop and biscquit, but went to bed satisfied.
On the second day (and for the rest of the week) we set off for what was to become our daily routine, a light breakfast then a walk west along the southern section of the shoreline along the sea defense wall with miles of sand laden holiday shacks. Most were simple structures made of wood, some of red brick, no doubt replacements for their crumbling ancestors eroded by the harsh environment and insects.
All were different and built way back before construction regulations or building inspectors had been invented, and I liked that very much. Each one had it’s own persona built with love care and attention but not necessarily from a plan. They were all different colours, from Black to White muted Green to pale Pink and everything in between. Some were painted as if with preservation in mind rather than good looks, sporting colours the likes of tha which you might find in a child’s brush cleaning jar, colours made up from rusty pots of paint a certain man might have lying around the house or in his shed at the bottom of the garden, those were the lids no longer fit properly no longer air tight with a thick skin on top.
Anyway I liked them so much I spent the rest of our short vacation taking pictures of them best I could from a disadvantaged position behind the sea wall, when the light was at it’s best.
Everything was going well up to the point when an angry individual appeared on his veranda and delivered a message I was neither expecting nor impressed with, but being the proper English gentleman I like to think I am, I apologized, and he promptly told me to “F**k Off” and to stop sticking my camera were it’s not wanted.
My wife’s contribution to the moment was to ask me.. Upsetting the Natives are We ! and I replied “He’s just a Miserable Bastard” and continued with the mission. I took lots of pictures that week and we had an unexpectedly fine time. With my cameras fully loaded and ready to shoot, I was a happy chappy, both my wife and the dog were happy too relaxing in the sunshine with their feet up when we weren’t out on walkies. Happy Days..!

Iv’e included a few photographs in the hope that they might add a little interest and flavour to my ramblings, I hope you enjoy looking at them as much as I enjoyed taking them… : )

Follow the link to my Website if you would like to see More Pictures..

http://irisphotojournal.weebly.com/

http://blackboximages.weebly.com/

https://twitter.com/Canoncol

 

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