Читать книгу The Handbook to the Rivers and Broads of Norfolk & Suffolk - G. Christopher Davies - Страница 4

Table of Contents

It is somewhat difficult to analyse the charm which the “Broad” District of Norfolk and Suffolk has for those who have once made its acquaintance in the only way in which an intimate knowledge of it can be gained.

In a journey through it by rail, you see nothing but its flatness; walk along its roads, you see the dullest side of it; but take to its water-highways, and the glamour of it steals over you, if you have aught of the love of nature, the angler, or the artist in you.

One reason may be that the rivers are highways. From them you view things as from a different standpoint; along them flows a current of life differing from that on either rail or road: the wind is your servant, sometimes your master; there is an uncertainty in the issue of the day’s proceedings, which to an idle holidaymaker is most delightful, and the slowly-moving water is more like a living companion than any other inanimate thing can be. Houses are few and far between. Oftentimes within the circle of your sight there is neither house nor man visible. A grey church tower, a windmill, or the dark-brown sail of a wherry in the distance breaks the sense of utter loneliness, but the scene is wild enough to enchain the imagination of many. Long miles of sinuous gleaming river, marshes gay with innumerable flowering plants, wide sheets of water bordered with swaying reeds, yachts or wherries, boats, fish, fowl, and rare birds and plants, and exquisite little bits to paint and sketch—these are the elements out of which a pleasant holiday may be made.

I wrote these lines whilst at anchor on Salhouse Little Broad. The evening was most still and placid, and the boat lay motionless among the lily leaves which covered the water around. The white lilies had so closed their petals that but the faintest morsels of white peeped out; but the yellow, which were most numerous, did not close so completely, and the dark interspaces of water were thickly starred with the golden globes. Beyond the lily leaves was a belt of tall reeds, swayed only by the birds which have their home among them. The yellow iris flowers made the narrow neck of marsh ablaze with colour. Bounding the view was a cordon of trees; on the one side a wooded bank; on the other, but out of sight, the river. A rustic boathouse nestled amid the trees, white swans lighted up the dark shades, moorhens led their broods across the pool; the western clouds were edged with sunset glories, and the reflections in the water were as perfect as the things they copy. But though there was absolute calm, the lily leaves were not still, but moved tremulously, and sent ripples on either side. Looking closely, you saw that the leaves were covered with small insects, and the small roach were busily plucking them off the under side. You could hear the little snap or suck the fishes made, and once you caught the sound you found the air was full of these snaps, and a most weird effect the sound gave. The roach crowded eagerly round to eat the crumbs that I threw them. So fearless were they, that when I put my hand into the water and held it quite still for a while, they came and snapped at my fingers, and funny little tickling scrapes they gave. I actually succeeded in grasping one or two of the boldest. A piece of paper, which had been crumpled up and thrown on the water, was being urged to and fro by the hungry little fish, who tried to find it eatable, and tugged at it bravely.

The clouds darkened. I went into my cabin as a squall of wind and rain came on. The thunder grew louder and louder, and there, alone, with the tempest raging, I could yet write that the end of the evening was as pleasant as the beginning, so great to me is the charm of the water.

I slung my hammock, hoping that on the following day the sun would shine, the wind would blow, and the hours would pass as quickly as the boat sailed, and slept as sound as man may.

It has happened that I have written a good deal about these waters—too much, some people say. One result has been that I have been pretty well overpowered with correspondence arising from persons making enquiries about the district, with a view to visiting it; therefore, when the publishers requested me to write a kind of handbook or guide to the Broads and Rivers, I thought it a good idea, in that enquirers might, by buying such a book, save themselves the trouble of writing to me, and getting necessarily short and inadequate replies. I am afraid, however, the guide-book style is rather beyond me, and I shall be most at home if I try to convey the requisite information by describing one of the numerous cruises in which I have sailed as guide to those friends who have trusted their holidays to my care, and I will select one lasting but a fortnight, during which time we covered most of the available ground.

Before doing so, a few words, descriptive of the situation of these rivers and lakes, will not be amiss.

From Yarmouth, looking inland, three main water-highways radiate. The chief is the Yare, flowing from the westward; then comes the Bure, flowing from the north-westward, and having her large tributaries, the Ant and the Thurne, flowing from the northward. From the south-west come the clear waters of the Waveney. All these rivers are navigable for considerable distances, and on the Bure and its tributaries the greater number of the Broads are situate. These Broads are large shallow lakes, connected with the rivers, and are many of them navigable. Flat marshes follow the lines of the rivers, and while higher and well-wooded ground rises near the upper portions of the rivers, near the sea the country is perfectly flat, and vessels sailing on all three rivers are visible at the same time.

The level of the marsh is frequently below that of the rivers, and at the outlet of each main drain is a drainage pump, or turbine wheel, sometimes worked by a windmill, and sometimes by steam, which pumps the water out of the drains into the rivers.

The fall of the river is about four inches to the mile. The ebb and flow of the tide are felt for thirty miles inland, but its rise and fall are very little indeed. There are no impediments to navigation of any consequence, so it may be imagined what a “happy hunting ground” this is to the boat-sailor, the naturalist, and the angler.