www.albiestales.co.uk part two

ALBIE OFTEN DREAMED of discovering a hoard of hidden treasure; perhaps a pot of gold buried by an Iceni family, fleeing in the wake of the advancing Romans, or maybe ‘pieces of eight’ cast ashore from some pirate ship that had foundered on treacherous rocks off the North Norfolk coast. His imagination would run riot as he thumbed through the pages of Treasure Island – a birthday present he had been given when he was but a child – and still a good read all these years later.

WITH ROZ STAYING AT REGIS COTTAGE for a few days before Easter, Albie thought it would give them more time to search for fossils and other antiquities on the beach – but his girlfriend had other ideas, preferring instead to explore Sheringham!

Arriving mid-morning on the Monday, after lunch Roz took Albie on an extensive tour of the shops in town, buying knick-knacks for her family and friends. Next was a visit to the Westcliffe Art Gallery where she passed judgement on the works of art by local artists, followed by afternoon tea in the Bijou Café. Soon, Albie was having to dig deeper into his pockets to keep up with the lifestyle to which she was accustomed! Besides that, he was beginning to find all this traipsing around rather tiring!

Tuesday began much the same, starting with an innocent game of pitch and putt on the cliff-top green at the top of the sixty steps, near the foothills of Beeston Bump, which was all right, thought Albie, until he lost his balls over the edge and had to pay an extra sixpence!

During the afternoon, Roz thought it would be fun to watch the fishermen at work. For Albie this proved to be a most embarrassing mistake as, taking up their kind offer of a short sea trip in a crab boat, he was terribly sick and spent most of the time peering deep into the swirling waters, watching all manner of colourful jetsam float by, whilst Roz just sat there, chatting up the fishermen and admiring the sea views!

Albie was not looking forward to Wednesday one little bit, and hardly dared to ask Roz what she would like to do.

“I’m rather tired of all this rushing about,” she yawned, over breakfast on Wednesday morning, “so, let’s have a quiet day – perhaps we could just walk across the fields to Britons’ Lane, as I’d love to see the telephone box you call me from!”

ROAMING THROUGH THE WOODS

“Will you be home for lunch?” Albie’s mother asked, clearing away the breakfast things. “If so, I’ll get a nice bit of ham from the Co-op...”

“No, that’s all right, Mum,” replied Albie, “but can we have some sandwiches, please?”

So, armed with a packet of cheese and pickle sandwiches – daintily made by his mum, with all the crusts cut off – the couple set off on their walk to Britons’ Lane to see the kiosk where Albie made all his telephone calls to Thorpe St Andrew!

“Why dun’t we walk up the hill to Roman Camp?” Albie suggested, as they stood outside the little red box. “Tha’s lovely and peaceful in the woods at this time of year!”

Roz had a good idea where all this was heading and, putting her arm around him, replied: “That would be nice – somewhere secluded... where we can eat our lunch!”

Following a steep climb up the side of the hill, sometimes struggling to find a foothold, they scrambled to the top and collapsed, breathless, in the sparse undergrowth already showing signs of spring’s new growth.

“What a lovely view!” exclaimed Roz, having got her breath back, “doesn’t Beeston Bump look so beautiful today?”

Although he’d seen it many, many times, Albie could see just what she meant as, bathed with limpid warm light of early spring, the local landmark stood sentinel over the sleepy little town within its shadow.

“We really must have a moonlight stroll over Beeston Bump,” said Roz, secretly finding the notion rather romantic, “wouldn’t you like to as well, Albie?”

Having just clambered to the top of the hill overlooking Britons’ Lane, climbing Beeston Bump in the dark was the last thing he had on his mind. However, Roz took his silence to mean approval of her idea, and continued: “Well, that’s all decided, then!”

Resting awhile, they ate their sandwiches and continued to admire the panorama that stretched out before them – from Weybourne and Blakeney Point in the west to Cromer and Overstrand in the east – with a peaceful backdrop formed by the glistening silver sea. It was such a romantic place, in which unspoken words of undying love came to mind.

“I’d love to meet your grandfather!” Roz announced, severing the passion of the moment and flinging them back into the real world. “Is it far to Wyndham Park? I mean, can we walk from here?”

“Yes, what a good idea!” exclaimed Albie, having told his granddad so much about his girlfriend over the past few weeks. “Yes, Granddad and Granny Gray would love to meet you!”

So, finishing off the last few crumbs, they tidied themselves and set off through the woods, passing along an avenue of centuries-old beech trees, in the general direction of East Runton and Wyndham Park.

A VISIT TO WYNDHAM PARK

Grandfather Elijah sat in his favourite chair by the living room fire, fully-dressed as if for a winter’s day, with his flat cap on his head.

“This here hatta be Val’rie!” he said, holding out a weather-beaten hand, “Oi’ve hard a lotta ’bout yuh frum our Albie.”

“No, Father,” said Granny Gray, shouting in his ear, “tha’s Rose, not Valerie – but you on’t lissen, will ya?”

Being profoundly deaf, listening was the last thing he could do, except when he wanted to, of course!

“Wha’s that?” the old man replied, cupping a hand to his ear. “Val’rie like roses, do she? Oi allus hev sum noice ’uns in me gaard’n, Oi dew an’orl.”

“No, Father, not roses – Rose...” said Albie’s granny impatiently, “tha’s her name.”

“And just who is Valerie?” retorted Roz, glaring at a red-faced Albie, “Is there something you haven’t told me? I think you’d better explain to me later!”

THE OLD FORGE

Leaving Albie’s grandparents, they walked along the main coast road to East Runton and, passing through the village, went up Thain’s Lane that led towards Incleborough Hill. On the way, Albie explained to Roz that he had grown up with a little girl called Valerie, who lived opposite him in Regis Place. They had gone to school together, played in the street together and splashed in the sea and built sandcastles together – but they had been more like brother and sister and never really close friends!

“Oh, that’s all right then,” announced Roz, giving her seal of approval on his past friendship, “just make sure nothing ever goes on when we’re apart – that’s all!”

As the lane narrowed, at a curve in the track, they approached the Old Forge where the village blacksmith was busy shoeing a horse. Bent almost double, he wore a large leather apron covering him from chest to toe, with only his hobnailed boots showing. Tapping away with a little hammer he was fixing a shoe to the horse’s hoof, which he gripped tightly between his knees.

Every inch the blacksmith he was, so tall and strong, yet sinewy and supple, possessed with a pronounced stoop from years of bending and shoeing the farmers’ horses. He was not like other Runtonians, as he wore a distinctive complexion about him, not unlike a well-done piece of toast, though a bit burnt around its edges.

Inside the forge all was in darkness, except for the glimmer of a tired fire in the hearth awaiting new life from the breath of the bellows, whilst the anvil, quiet and still, seemed to possess a look of anticipation, as if preparing itself for the rain of blows soon to follow.

At the sound of Roz and Albie’s approach, the blacksmith turned slightly, mopping the sweat off his brow with an oily hand, and cheerily greeted them with: “Artenune, young Marster – an’ yew too, m’dear – tha’s a noice day fur yew two young’uns a-walkin’ out tergather in God’s wonderful wuld, en’t it?”

Albie nodded that, indeed, it was, whilst Roz just smiled cheekily.

“Tha’s a mighty fine horse you have there,” said Albie, sounding, for a moment, like some Norfolk-born John Wayne, though not really knowing one end of a horse from the other, “is that yours or...?”

The blacksmith laughed, the guffaw of one who knows what small talk is, but when it is merely a waste of time. “No, no,” he roared, gently lowering the horse’s hind leg to the ground, “Oi dun’t own hosses – Oi jist shoo ’em!”

“I always thought,” laughed Albie, as they continued their walk up the lane, “shoo ’em wuz somethin’ you did to geese!’

At the end of Thain’s Lane the track crossed a railway bridge, over the Sheringham to Cromer line, and joined up with Brick Lane before meandering its way towards West Runton, with the Golf Links on the seaward side and, shadowed on its southern side by the gaunt outline of Incleborough Hill.

It was then Roz and Albie heard a train approaching, accompanied by clouds of smoke and steam billowing across the lane.

“C’mon, Roz,” Albie shouted, breaking into a run, “race you to the bridge!”

Once upon the railway bridge, they could see the object of their attention – a large steam locomotive, slowing down to walking pace next to a signal box. There, standing on a raised, wooden platform was the signalman about to hand over the token, giving permission for the engine to work the rest of the single line all the way to Sheringham.

The engine-driver, seeing two faces peering down at him from the top of the bridge opened the regulator wide, sending the wheels into a spin and sending clouds of smoke, sparks and black smuts high into the air, completely engulfing the bridge where Albie and Roz were standing.

“Where have you been?” Albie’s mother asked the pair of them, when they arrived home half-an-hour later, “You’re absolutely filthy, just look at your faces, whatever have you been up to?”

“Nothin’ that soap an’ water won’t shift!” laughed Albie.

END TO A MEMORABLE DAY

Later that evening, Roz and Albie decided to go for their romantic stroll over Beeston Bump, with golden clouds hanging, motionless, over a shimmering sea and a blood-red sun dying over Blakeney Point. As was befitting for the occasion, Roz was wearing her brand-new skirt, which, by now, had become Albie’s firm favourite – the ‘Treasure Island’ design!

Standing on top of Beeston Bump – almost the highest part of Norfolk apart from Roman Camp which pipped it by a few feet – they gazed at the peaceful view; the sea gently ebbing and rising over the shingle banks, gulls hovering silently almost level with the cliff edge, and the lush verdant, wall-to-wall carpet that seemed to stretch for miles. And they were alone, completely alone, with not a soul in sight, apart from a solitary figure walking two dogs over the distant cliff tops.

Making their way down the side of the round-topped hill, moving gingerly down rough steps cut deeply into the hillside, they reached the bottom and wandered towards a secluded spot, popular with courting couples, where the cliff had subsided a few feet many years earlier. Now, Mother Nature had taken over again, reclaiming it as her own, upholstering it with a lush grassy carpet covered with wildflowers.

Gently, Albie took Roz by the hand, and they sat, close together on the grass, gazing out to sea.

“Whenever I read Treasure Island,” said Albie, innocently running his hand over the soft material of her skirt, “I’ll shall always think of you!”

“How very sweet of you,” replied Roz, squeezing his hand gently, “and whenever I see Beeston Bump I shall always remember our wonderful holiday together!”

“If we start here,” Albie teased, pointing to the map of Treasure Island on her skirt, “and move along this path, we may, possibly, discover hidden treasure...”

Roz closed her eyes slightly, as she lay in the grass with her hands clasped behind her head – then, without warning, she leapt to her feet!

“Ouch!” she exclaimed painfully, “you could have picked a more comfortable spot! What on earth am I sitting on? It feels like... a rock... or something...!”

Albie knelt down in the grass and there, half buried in the sandy soil, was a small, rusty-looking tin – the cause of Roz’s discomfort.

“This here’s a rummun sorta treasure to find,” he laughed, seeing the funny side of it, and, scratching at the bare earth with his hands, he soon extricated the little tin. “But your map led us to it, tha’s no doubt about it!”

Getting out his handkerchief, he began cleaning away all the years of accumulated grime from the surface of the tin, taking more interest in his ‘find’ than of his girlfriend, who had found a softer area of grass and beckoned to him to join her.

“For goodness sake, Albie,” she said, quite impatiently, “throw that blessed thing away and come and sit down, will you!”

But Albie was never one to be put off easily, especially when he’d discovered another artefact for his collection.

“Hang on,” he replied, looking closely at the little tin, “there’s some wording on the lid... ‘Gee’s Linctus Pastilles’ – but that look really old to me...”

“What a coincidence!” exclaimed Roz, at last beginning to take an interest in their discovery. “That’s the name of my uncle – Gee – and he lives in Sheringham as well, how very strange! We really must go and see him and Auntie before I return home tomorrow.”

But Albie hadn’t heard a single word, determined, as he was, to open the little tin of cough lozenges. There was definitely something inside, of that he was certain, as it rattled when he shook it close to his ear.

“The bloomin’ hinges are all rusted up,” he complained, struggling to get the lid open. “P’raps... if I give it a sharp bang on a stone...”

With that, the tin flew out of his grasp, burst open and shed its contents on the grass. Roz and Albie could hardly believe their eyes, as before them lay a dozen or so coins, some blackened by the years, others worn smooth with usage, but the best of the lot were three beautifully detailed coins with an impression of a little horse, which was as clear as the day the coins were minted.

Looking at the other coins – pennies, ha’pennies and silver thruppenny bits – from Queen Victoria’s reign and earlier, Albie deduced them to have been discovered by a beachcomber or hoarder, just like himself, and accidentally lost on the clifftops many, many years ago.

“We can’t keep ’em, I’m afraid,” he told Roz, putting the little tin in his pocket for safekeeping, “as they could well be treasure trove, so we’ll hatta report our find to PC Beck – but not just yet!”

By now, the sun, having fallen over the distant horizon, had been replaced by the moon, almost at its fullest, turning the hillside into a shimmering kaleidoscope of purest silver, with the only sounds those of birds squawking, as they jostled each other in a most irritable manner competing for the best roosting place of the night, followed by the gentle, softly-undulating of sea over shingle a hundred feet below.

It was Roz who spoke first.

“I suppose,” she laughed, settling back in the grass, “at this point I should just... lay back and think of Norfolk!”

“Now, there’s a thought!” replied Albie, with a smile.

THE EPILOGUE

As the moon stood still over Beeston Hill, the two young lovers were blissfully unaware that, close nearby, a large black dog was watching their every move...

NEXT: Roz takes Albie to meet her uncle – and his band of pirates!

SOME OF ALBIE’S FAVOURITE WEBSITES A Norfolk Entertainer A Moment in Time Enjoy North Norfolk Enjoy Norwich Flint Holiday Cottages Norfolk Churches Norfolk Dialect Norfolk Village Signs Norwich City Hall and the Lions Picture Norfolk Remember Norfolk Sculthorpe Spyplanes

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