Perhaps let’s go back to Sutton for some canoeing & recuperation from the ailments of modern life.

 We wait for one of those crisp, cold and dry early mornings when it’s bright & sunny and there’s no one around. Those are the most mysterious days on the Broads when you feel like you could have drifted back a couple of hundred years.

 Wildfowl a plenty, and just about nothing else on our minds but the slow rhythm of the paddle, the calm water, the peace and above all….. natures harmony. The sort of feeling eventually pervades that lulls us into believing we could just get up and wander (for no reason) out of the canoe & splash across the surface, unaffected by the forces of gravity.

To get to that level of trance like reverie it’s essential that there’s no one around, and that it’s calm and cold. Why that is I suppose is something we’ll never fathom, but it just ‘is’ & trying to understand is itself sublimely futile. Afterwards it reminds us that there was an age when one could actually relax, no gadgets, no internal combustion engine, no TV, just quiet.

 Paddling away from the Staithe out onto the Broad, the sun’s behind in the east and the Broad opens up and stretches ahead, hushed golden reed to right & left swaying gently, the only other movement being occasional small flights of duck, Teal and Gadwall, Pochard and Mallard.

Happening upon a Coot on his winter sojourn from the Netherlands, he half swims half flies his way out of the perception of danger for five or ten yards & creates a noise and a little expanding wake, then we’re back to the solitude.

 Luck could eavesdrop on the distant boom of our rarest of avian friends, somewhere lonely, out there in the reed camouflaged and motionless, but not this time. At the margin the diminutive Dabchick can occasionally be seen by the keen eyed, surely the most entertaining of aquatic birds, the moment he’s spotted he’ll duck under & the next minute is spent in the futility of trying to guess where he’ll resurface. The conjecture generally proves to be wide of the mark.

 So ardent wildlife watching aside we slowly paddle up the Broad with the charmingly secluded boat house relatively passing to our left as the Broad narrows and the margins become  more unkempt with overhanging Birch and Alder rooted onto the solid ground.

 Turning left at the Stalham fork, we have the Ant in prospect, and the pace instinctively quickens as the channel widens out again, for the only reason that there’s an objective in sight. Bound to be an Otter here somewhere but as always unseen.

 A short run up to the Dilham turn & we’re paddling in the darkening meandering stillness, with the ever present tow of Barton’s historic gravity hauling us onward.  Mute Swans stand their ground in these tranquil and silent waters, they know it’s theirs, and barely accept our trespass. We paddle on lightly in reply to their distain, they’ve been here for generations, and we can only travel through in reverence.

 The old river, always replenished with our new paddling water, opens out once again & we finally observe Barton Broad, seemingly standing taller than the river,  choppy in the increasing south westerly wind. Can Nelson really have sailed here? This opened up, brown black blue landscape, the greatest of British heroes. Legends start somewhere.

Strangely encouraged by the claustrophobia of history, we head for Turkey Broad, paddling out roughly perpendicular to the face of the waves, bisecting the Broad. The windier and choppier the better, exuberant we force the weight of water past, seemingly  travelling  faster into a heading wind, although of course the reverse is true. Perception, as ever, is all.

The waves decrease in the direction of their source, & rounding the island we head back onto the river through the wider section and round the bend to Irstead. Larger numbers of wildfowl here, predominantly the usual suspects, but the singular Great Crested Grebe sharpens our interest.

Eventually the obligatory welcome ‘peep’ and flash of copper  blue, as a Kingfisher purposefully buzzes past, close, emulating those bygone firework aeroplanes long forbidden for the reason of being much too much fun. Meandering around again, we paddle distractedly together in time & watch small birds flit from side to side across the trees. Whistling Long Tailed Tit flocks as well as Great and Blue, but occasional a Coal or Marsh Tit also keeping the pervasive reverie at bay. Finally How Hill Staithe, where we alight for a while to talk to the Guide’s old work friends fresh from the Marsh at break time. The end of lunch, mugs in one hand, half consumed apples in the other. The conversation flows, the usual work this & wildlife that, really nice to see them again.

Paddle in hand again & back to a secluded spot on the riverside for our own lunch and a brew, no cloud, but still little warmth in the sun. Nice time to stop. If there are any boats around there’ll be a flurry at lunch time & it’ll be still again soon, so tarp out & buoyancy aid still on to keep warm; we brew tea, eat sandwiches & thick slabs of home made cake and stare out across the river, waiting for something to catch our eyes.  Marsh Harrier or Old Frank, maybe flock of waders or sharply lit Lapwings in the winter sunshine.
Eventually, as always in winter, cold focuses our minds and the need to paddle up some warmth compels us back into the canoe & the return run.  Backing wind for home this time. Got it right for a change.

Wilds of Norfolk was set up because of our unquenchable enthusiasm for the Norfolk Broads,  our small part of the natural world. We thought we'd like to try and give something back by helping other people enjoy the countryside and it's wildlife as well as do our own little bit to promote an interest in the natural world and it's conservation , not only for the wildlife but for the sheer exuberance of the precious life we're lucky enough to get the chance to live.

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