I was rather taken by this piece of art. This image of a ship traversing a choppy sea, was on a wall near the Guildhall, I think. Note the empty crow’s nest and the absence of crew from the scene. Is it just an emblem, a reproduction of a coin or trading token of some kind?
The bright sunlight held warmth if it was possible to get out of the wind. The wind was bitter. Lynn could have been the venue of the trial of the Wind and the Sun that I remember from a BBC Schools Radio broadcast. I would have been six or seven at the time. The class had to act as if we were wearing a heavy coat while the two elements tried to relieve us of it. The winning element would be whichever got us out of the coat, thereby proving its superiority. It woz the Sun wot won it.
There are plenty examples of medieval structures about the town. Old taverns and cottages, a few churches, including the minster.
The minister has two towers at the west front, one seems older and is intricate in its stonework. Its partner looks much more solid, but dull by comparison.
The interior of the minster contained some choir stalls from the C14th and some highly detailed brasses, one of a knight with his lady and his faithful hound at his feet. Admittedly, a dog that was impatient for supper.
The building had suffered some damage during the English Revolution of 1642 – 1649, although stained glass remains a feature, casting the noon sunlight in pleasing patterns on the floor of the nave. The choir stalls feature carvery of various heads, some more worn than others.
Out on the winding streets, doorways and doors provide plenty of interest, from old pubs like The Valiant Sailor, to crooked houses and old business premises.
The town has at least three record shops. One, called The Record Shop, was surprisingly busy. The owner has been trying to sell the business as a going concern, but having been let down by a prospective buyer, is gradually selling what he’s got at 50% of marked prices. He enjoys what he does, but has developed back and knee problems which precipitated his decision to sell up. There is little sign of him doing so imminently, despite the ‘Retirement Sale’ as he is still getting fresh stock in. He trades in old CDs and vinyl albums which are predominantly second hand.
I picked up David Bowie re-issue CDs of Reality (2002) and Heathen (2003) that each had a bonus disc with them. Packaging and inserts were in immaculate condition. The proprietor thanked me for my custom, adding “Enjoy, or endure. Bowie can be a bit difficult.” He did acknowledge that Heathen is an album he liked.
After catching up with my beloved, who had been delving into charity shops, we went to look around the precinct of St Nicholas Chapel. It is big for a chapel. At some point somebody deemed it would be a good idea to add a spire to the stone tower, in this riverside port that lacks a solid underlying geology. The stone tower shows signs of stress. While not buckling completely, the weight of the spire is gradually compressing the tower’s stonework. I think the chapel’s spire is the tallest structure in the town, how long it will remain so can only be guessed.
Nearby, Pilot Street escaped a period of slum clearance, therefore retaining buildings that have since been returned to habitable dwellings. These are quaint and desirable houses, for those who enjoy low beams, low ceilings, small doorways, twisty staircases and wonky floors, little natural light and limited car parking.
We moved onto the museum by the King’s Lynn Transport Hub, i.e, bus station. The museum makes much of the ancient wooden henge structure recovered from the tide margin near Hunstanton, just east of the Great Ouse river mouth. The centre of the henge had been marked by a massive old oak stump placed upside/down. The age-blackened stump, weighing over a ton, was on display, along with other timbers from the site.
Another artefact on show was a Smith’s Crisps tin. I had heard of these while working in sales for Golden Wonder during the early 1980s, but never seen one.
“I remember when Smith’s were sold in tins.” was a common refrain from older shoppers, reminiscing aloud as they passed me trying to cram the crisp fixture with eight flavours of GW crisps, Wotsits and Ringos, before seeking out the shop manager to emphasise how low in stock the warehouse was, thus necessitating a big order.
I was once asked by a sprightly old woman, whether I was “a traveller in chocolate” as I approached a corner shop, be-suited with sample case in hand.
That particular conversation held me up on that Monday morning for a few minutes, which was a pain. Monday being a day when I had more than enough calls to get round. Mondays also included negotiating Betty at the East Grinstead Co-op. She continually promoted the idea of me taking her daughter as my wife. She introduced us once as I was going about my business. Her daughter was dressed in regulation Brighton & Hove Cooperative Society grocery uniform, a slender version of her mum. A pretty young woman indeed, but my computer-generated appointment list left no time for us to get acquainted.
Returning to the subject of Lynn, however, after the museum, there was time for tea and biscuits at the railway station in the independently run, Country Line Café. From there we had to change trains at Ely.
Signalling failures had played havoc with the timetable, luckily in our favour. We caught the 12:23h that had been hanging about on Platform 1 for nearly two hours. It was pretty full with Sheffield United fans on the way to Carrow Road for that evening’s match, tourists travelling home, or to Norwich and the usual mix of students and WFH people with no particular routine and the mobile retired.
The passengers were subdued, numbed by the hold up, or so I thought. Unfortunately, we too succumbed. The numbing effect was created by a Czech woman talking at the top of her voice to an older Sheffield man. She talked loudly and enthusiastically about her favourite topic, herself.
I think the man had initially just been a typical friendly Northerner, filling the waiting time with some polite conversation. I thought that he might back off with the polite questions when he eventually worked out that each enquiry was taken as an invitation to spout forth a monologue of fatuous aphorisms, biographical details and descriptions of her personal multi-lingual brilliance. Was there any language she hadn’t mastered? Was there no country she hadn’t blessed with her presence? Would she ask any questions of him, for light relief from the efforts made to talk about herself?
At times the carriage fell into relative silence, before the man asked another naïvely open question. On reflection, I suspect closed questions would have been treated similarly loquaciously.
As if this wasn’t enough, an American woman proceeded to dictate emails to goodness knows who, via her phone, which she held close to her face. She was even instructing on the detail of punctuation.
The lad sitting next to her was slumped against the window pane. He had a fixed smile, as if his initial amusement at this frankly pretentious and affected behaviour, had been replaced by rigor mortis.
We made it to the end of the line. No one got hurt, unlikely as it seemed. Sheffield United lost 2-1.
~
CLP 10/03/2026
Journey of Words 
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