The quick-forming storm struck us with a malevolent mix of wind, lightning and pea-size hail. Staggering forward, I held 5-year-old Nora to my chest with both arms. Beneath a hurriedly donned poncho, she clutched a stuffed bear. During one Viking gust, the three of us almost hit the ground to avoid being swept off the 12-foot-high dyke.
Perhaps my idea for a family vacation had been a tad ambitious? This thought had haunted me ever since my wife, Jessica, had hastily embraced my suggestion that we take advantage of a wedding in East Anglia to try an inn-to-inn walk with the flower girls—our four daughters, ages 5 to 11.
On practice journeys, we’d discovered that Hazel, our eldest, was slow but steady. Grace, 9, would often cruise ahead only to crash like the hare. Seven-year-old Willa was the inveterate butterfly chaser, and Nora the wild card. When properly motivated, Nora walked as enthusiastically as any of her sisters. When not, her foot-stomping refusals to budge were unshaken by promises or threats. Still, the chance to introduce them to one of our favorite pastimes—the gentle art of tramping in England—was too much to resist.
The North Norfolk Coast Trail offered an ideal primer, a well-marked, breezy seaside jaunt with no real elevation and easy access to village inns, pubs and bail-out spots. It passed through a birders’ paradise along the coast that produced Nelson, Britain’s greatest naval hero. Wanting company (not to mention a navigator), we lined up our trusty English walking companion, Rob Mocatta, along with his son Edward, age 10, and daughter Eleanor, 8, to join us. (Rob’s wife and 6-year-old son, James, would join us later in the week.) We also convinced our friend Greg Jones, a wisecracking author-priest, who had flown over to help preside at the Anglo-American wedding in Ely Cathedral, to come along.
The first day of our east-to-west journey—eight miles from the village of Cromer to Weybourne—got off to a rocky start when Grace shut her finger in the heavy door of our hotel room, chalking up the trek’s first casualty. Then, after we skirted several large seaside caravan parks on a wooded path, Nora dragged Jessica into one of them to go to the bathroom, complaining, “I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I want to watch The Aristocats.” While the men waited outside, discipline broke down: Padre Jones pulled out travel Scrabble, and we played the first of three games that day, passing the miniature board back and forth as we walked.
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