Kings Lynn and Vancouver

For those of you who have recently been following our cruise along the River Rhine, I am assuming you will be astute enough to realise that King’s Lynn and Vancouver are not riverports that have suddenly relocated to the great European artery.

Of course, you would be absolutely right. During this past week Jane and I went on a walking tour of our adopted hometown of King’s Lynn, and for those of you who are struggling to work out the link to Vancouver you will have to read on. Trust me, the link is strong and cannot be broken. Just wait, don’t be so impatient.

Even though the tour we took part in lasted for less than two hours, what we gleaned from it was seemingly infinite. So, for this reason I have decided to split this into two parts over the next couple of weeks.

I have recently become involved with an incredible local organisation for the blind, which next month, is commemorating its 220th anniversary. Just think about it, when the first committee sat down to talk about how to go about things, the Battle of Trafalgar was still a week away, and Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson RN was still very much with us, even though, as we all know, he was not totally complete, having mislaid an eye and an arm. What’s all that got to do with a walking tour of KL? Just calm down and wait a minute.

Vision Norfolk do so much for the visually impaired community of the county that, I for one, am struggling to voice my appreciation in the appropriate way. I just hope that they can read this to realise just how much we think of them.

We met up with our fellow tourists, only six of us altogether, at VN’s headquarters at Thoresby College. The quadrangle where we met our volunteer escorts, Anne and Pat of King’s Lynn Town Guides, is wonderfully picturesque and, on this occasion, was bathed in a glorious early autumn sunshine, picking out the Judas tree within, even to me. Couldn’t wait to get going, I do love a bit of history. I think I might have mentioned that before?

By the way, our two guides couldn’t have come from further apart on the geographical spectrum, the former from Napier in New Zealand, and the latter from a tiny little town in England, what’s it called now? Ah, that’s it, King’s Lynn. KLTG offer a number of tours, and as far as I can tell, they like to keep the titles simple.

The one we were on today is known as the “Turn Left Tour.” Why do you reckon that is? Pretty easy actually, it is because we turned left out of the College gate. Next time, in the interest of balance, we will try and do the “Turn Right Tour.”

Now, where were we to begin? What a good idea, as we were already there, Thoresby College, the present offices of the much esteemed and, now I think it is safe to say after all these years, venerable, Vision Norfolk.

For the second episode in a few weeks I am going to mention camels and eyes of needles. Good old Thomas Thoresby, might have been Thursby, and he was a jolly good sort, although when you look into things a little further, it is pretty obvious that he wasn’t all altruism. On the face of it he was generous in the extreme.

By the way, whilst we are here, it appears that he was an ancestor, through the Spencer family, of the present Prince of Wales; mind you, when you go back so far, there is a fair chance he might have been yours or my antecedent as well!

It appears that there were four different chaps sharing the same name at the time, all related, so whilst it is certain that he was the benefactor in question for the construction of this particular establishment, it is not clear that he was the same man who was credited with some of the less attractive events supposedly carried out in that name.

Given that I am quite fond of a flawed character, and for the purpose of these pages, I am going to assume that he was.

He was a wealthy land owner and wool merchant, very probably, given the type, he was a flock-master, one of those dreadful monied sort who enclosed land so that they could keep massive flocks of sheep, English wool was a hugely sought after commodity at the time. Let’s be clear, he wasn’t a self-made man.

There was a person of that name who was dubbed the “Wicked Farmer,” and for this story I would like to think it was our very own Tom. He was also mayor of Lynn on three occasions which, who knows, might not have harmed his net worth. As he approached his dotage, after all he was in his thirties or forties by this stage, he began thinking of what laid beyond.

“I know what I shall do. I will build a college for the goodly priests to gain an education. Eventually, me thinks, the building shall be named after me, in recognition of the goodliness I have rendered on to the Good Lord. I then think it worthy if three of the priests are kept in cloisters to pray for my family and I to pass through the gates of Heaven itself.”

Isn’t that pretentious? Sort of, it wasn’t quite as pompous as it first appears, for he named the place Trinity College, it wasn’t until much later that it adopted his name. To be honest, I have no prove to base my unworthy assertions upon, but who knows? As mentioned previously, though, there is no doubt that he was trying to buy his ticket to enter Heaven. I just hope he didn’t have to contend with one of those infernal digital turnstiles when he rocked up.

Remember, it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than a wealthy man to enter Heaven. Perhaps the memo got lost in the post! He was, however, giving it his best shot, and by providing an education for the trainee priests, who would later ply their trade at St Margaret’s Church, The Minster, he was forcing his way to the front of the queue.

Whatever aspersions I have cast toward Tom, and apologies to his family, it is a grand building doing him enormous credit. To think it is still in use over five hundred years later is a phenomenal tribute to the builders of the time, who probably weren’t rich enough to purchase a first class ticket to eternity.

The main door, more akin to a gate with a wicket, or Judas, gate within, is a fabulous recognition of early Tudor craft. Thanks to this specially organised tour for blind people we were able to feel our way around the incredible joinery. Honestly, it was as if it had been put through a modern lathe and mill to shape it.

The front door was referred to by our guides as a parchment door. I must confess, I didn’t fully understand that as there is no parchment, sheepskin, present any longer, so I looked it up. Got it now. Right, it is a style of manufacture. I am very familiar with scroll work in wrought iron and wood and, in effect, that is exactly what parchment work is. Parchment is, simply, another word for scroll, and is the descriptive word for this work, because parchment resembles scrolls. Strictly speaking, I suppose, writing scrolls are made using parchment. There you go!

Old Tom didn’t really build his college at the right time, although he wasn’t to realise that, he died in 1510, for Henry VIII had a little spat with the Roman church. He had fallen for the love of his life, Anne Boleyn, well, for that week anyway, and when he wasn’t granted permission to divorce the first Mrs Tudor, he told the Pope where to get off.

After throwing a bit of a hissy-fit, he decided to dissolve the monasteries. At the time Thoresby built the future KLVNHQ Lynn was known as Bishop’s Lynn. They quickly recognised which side their bread was buttered and changed it to Lynn Regis. Good move, although, I suspect, they soon spotted that a kiss-me-quick sort of a town, which would also sport the Regis descriptor, might tar them with the same brush, so to avoid being associated with Bognor, of bugger Bognor fame, they inserted the King’s descriptor to its front instead.

KL has quite often had an affinity with the Royal Family. It was from here that King John set off on his ill-fated journey across the Wash with all of his jewels. If I remember rightly it was something to do with signing the Magna Carta, upon which I think he was trying to renege, and why wouldn’t he, he had just sacrificed all his power to another bunch of privileged nobles.

Then there was the Civil War of the mid-1600s, when they ended up on the wrong side, Charles I. The leaders soon saw that they had got this one wrong and when Oliver Cromwell banged on the town gate and invited them to surrender or he would have them executed if they refused, they took the path to enlightenment.

All they ended up with was a few years in the Tower. What a shame that the royalist commanders at Colchester, a few years later, didn’t have the same forethought. They decided to carry on fighting and when, as sure as eggs is eggs, the Parliamentarians overran their town, they took them out behind the bike sheds of Colchester Castle and lined a firing squad up in front of them.

You’d think they might’ve learned a lesson from somewhere wouldn’t you. I do wonder if the Lynn civic authorities ever considered it might be worth another name change, I would have, to, say, something like Cromwell’s Lynn?

I am afraid to say that I haven’t really got enough time to dedicate to all the stops we made. Forgive me, but I shall skip over Clifton House and its Elizabethan Tower, as wonderful as they are, complete with its rounded corners to the street elevation along with its coaching stone, to protect the building fabric from rampaging carts and coaches, it seems the drivers were early predecessors of boy racers. The tower was important as an early lookout for unfriendly craft approaching along the River Great Ouse.

A location that grabbed my attention was the site of the Three Crowns Pub. Given its association with the Royal Navy Press Gangs, it is bound to have captivated me. It is no great secret that I love anything to do with the Napoleonic Wars.

There is no question that the use of Impressment was barbaric, with many of the gangs paying little credence to the law. Many men should have been safe from the Press, but the gangs were not bothered by this, being more interested in receiving their bounty for delivering up kidnapped personnel, for that is what they really were, to the Admiralty for dispersing around the Royal Naval fleet.

Many ship’s captains were less than impressed with the personnel that were brought before them, there was no way that they wanted green-behind-the-ears landlubbers serving in their crews, as they were about as much use as chocolate radiators, before there was even chocolate. The Press Gangs’ favourite haunts, where the quality of the impressed was generally higher, were the ports frequented by merchantmen.

This is where the Three Crowns comes into play. It was here that the ship owners agreed to meet with returning sailors to pay them off after long voyages, sometimes many years at sea. This was common knowledge to the Royal Naval HR departments.

It is understandable why the owners wanted comparatively wealthy individuals collecting bags full of cash from the Three Crowns, or other similar establishments, and that was because they owned the inns and pubs as well, meaning vast amounts of the wages would be returning over the counter.

It has to be said that this was pretty stupid on behalf of both the owners and the mariners themselves. The last thing long absent sailors would want would be impressment onto an RN barky, just to be carted off to sea for another indeterminable period.

It was, on the other hand, dumb on behalf of the owners as they would be losing highly skilled men to another employer, with very little chance of getting them back, also meaning that they might be shorthanded for their next ventures. Able Seamen didn’t exactly grow on trees, as the Admiralty well knew.

None of these hooligans cared about the mental wellbeing of the men or their families, only their own pay packets. Some families wouldn’t even know of their menfolk’s destiny, there was no such thing as a WhatsApp home back then.

Families would often end up on the parish, with no hope of even seeing a share of the hard earned cash of their husbands, fathers or sons. What’s more, it was all perfectly legal, well, within reason anyway. There were exemptions. One tale I liked, although not from Lynn, was the taking of some exempt apprentices in Margate.

The high constable was so outraged by this flagrant breach of the Impress Service’s authority, and accompanied by another peace officer, challenged the naval officer about the breach.

The navy man, probably a lieutenant, cogitated for a moment before deciding he was right and the constable wrong. In apprehending the apprentices he also added the officers of the law to his catch and took them off to a life at sea.

It wasn’t all doom and gloom for pressed men, many rose up the ranks to become officers, some even making it all the way to admiral.

Follow the series of Thomas Kydd by Julian Stockwin, the story of a Guildford wigmaker who rises all the way to the top after being snatched from a pub. I love this series.

Read next week's blog for more on this tour.

Mildenhall Hub Parkrun

On the road again. Jane, VI Guide, Nik Bryan, and I crossed the border into Suffolk for a brief flirtation with a parkrun in another county.

As soon as we got out of our car, Jane spotted one of the amazing hi-vis heroes, who was more than effusive in his greeting. I misunderstood him, though, when he asked if I was the VI Guide. I informed him that I wasn’t, not realising he had been speaking to Jane.

He said something along the lines of, “No, I realise that.”

I then cottoned on to how stupid I had been, after all, it is me that carries the white cane. Well, that was pretty dense, wasn’t it. Never mind, onwards and upwards!

We caught up with Nik and went across to meet the day’s Run Director. I am not sure why, and have noticed this in other places as well, the volunteers seem to congregate in the shade, which was positively arctic compared to the lovely autumn sunshine.

I’m sure no offence is intended but one could very soon think that, as visitors, we are not welcome.

That assertion could not be further from the truth because the greeting was as warm as the shadow was chill. Even though all meets have a first-timers’ briefing for those not familiar with the surroundings, one of the organisers took Nik and I out on the course to show us the main hazard, a manhole cover that projects a few inches from the ground.

Every now and again it is an absolute joy to come across another VI runner and their guide. That’s not actually true, of course, we would all rather be cured of our conditions and these words would be rendered superfluous.

This time we were honoured to meet up with Steph and her escort, Rebecca. We went over to meet them and, despite my admonishment of folk who act without providing a commentary, I did exactly the same when I dangled my hand out for Steph to take.

Steph, who for obvious reasons, had no idea I was doing so, and for the brief period when she didn’t take it I wondered what I had done to upset her so soon after meeting. After what could only have been a micro-second, although felt much longer, my brain clicked into action, and I informed Steph that I was offering her my hand.

Boy, did I feel embarrassed, the heat from my face being enough to make other participants remove their top layers. I am not usually very good at saying this, but I am really, really sorry.

Anyway, onto the course itself. The majority takes place on lovely wide tarmac paths, but there is a small bit that links to parts of the hard surface over some grass and trail, a little bumpy but not too bad, have encountered worse.

The marshal on top of the aforementioned manhole stood proudly, like Eddystone Lighthouse, warning us runners, as if we were ships heading towards our doom on an iron-bound coast. All tragedies were successfully averted.

I can just imagine that on a foggy day they might sport a flashing red light on their head, much like a buoy in a harbour. Buoy or girl, I am sure it would be very fetching. One bit where a little more care was needed was where we ran alongside a hedge, meaning that the light coming through from the low sun was slightly dappled, but Nik, as usual, saw me through quite safely.

Speaking to the team afterward it appears that they had some sort of technical glitch with the time-keeping, but, to be honest, I don’t think any of us noticed. You all did a brilliant job.

It was nice that other participants came up to Nik and I to see what they needed to do to get trained up to be a VI Guide. We pointed them in the right direction and, who knows, they might follow it up.

It would be great if they could for I dream of the time that every event will keep its own register of VI Guides. Thank you all for asking anyway.

Afterwards, many of us adjourned to the lovely café inside the Hub itself, where this particular three partook of coffee and a bacon roll apiece. What is it with people? There is only one way to enjoy coffee and that is black and strong.

Equally, bacon rolls can only be enjoyed condiment free. Why is it that others drown them with red or brown sauce? There is no understanding some people. Funny thing is, I am always informed that it is me who is the odd one out. Oh well, don’t care.

White Cane Ratings*
Car Park: very good; free - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)
Welcome and Briefing: very good; friendly, informative and enthusiastic - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)
Atmosphere: very good - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)
Course: good; mixed terrain, mainly tarmac - 🦯 🦯 🦯 (3)
Marshalling: excellent; - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (5)
*These ratings are how the event suits a blind person, and are my opinion only; they are not scientific. Whatever happens no-one must be put off by me. The best way to learn about something is try it for yourself.