South Quay, King's Lynn

The weekend in black and white is here.

Up before the Beak

This fine weather vane is, I've since found, on the magistrates court's rear, riverside end. Clearly, despite looking like a common cormorant or shag, it's an attempt at the that old, medieval pelican in its piety motif that runs through King's Lynn.

Doing the minimal amount of due diligence that I always do for this work I find that the ancient slang term "Beak" meaning a magistrate has an uncertain etymology (maybe Dutch, maybe Saxon beag a gold collar, maybe this, maybe that ...) and is, in fact somewhat dated and out of fashion, being used only by old folk (like me) and limited to the London area. It seems "Stipe" as in stipendiary magistrate is very much the mot juste among the classes that need a word for a magistrate. Well, all I can say is that I've never heard anyone say "Stipe" in my 63 years but then I've led such a sheltered life.

Self-isolation

No doubt in a few days time we'll all be keeping our distance from each other, eyeing those with minor colds and sniffles with the deepest suspicion, blaming innocents for all our woes as the civilised world (or at least the shops) grind to a virus addled halt all for our own good don't you know ... These measures (whatever they turn out to be) make the Government look like it is, at least, doing something and the last thing a Government wants to be doing is looking on helpless (as it is) and unable to prevent a catastrophe (which it is) ...

But catastrophe? Nah! Not going to happen, we'll muddle on, as we always do. I'm a great believer in the benefits of muddling on; complaining and moaning, but buggering on regardless. It'll all pass, these things do, the next story will come along to worry the worrymongers, and what doesn't kill you only makes you bronchitic (and possibly cyanotic) but life goes on or not as the case may be; and if not then it doesn't matter and you can tell them I've had a wonderful life ...

Now you'll maybe want to wash your hands after reading this ... and keep your distance, go on, back off!

Guannock Gate, The Walks, King's Lynn

If you spin around from where yesterday's post was taken you'll come across this handsome arch cum folly cum historical reconstruction that I showed before at night.

I'll post again a link to more about this here.

Bandstand, The Walks, King's Lynn

Wouldn't you know it, you post one bandstand and along comes another; this one in the Walks. This is on what looks like an island surrounded by the much abused Gaywood River, a special place given a special name: Vancouver Garden after George Vancouver who, well why not let the plaque do the talking ...

From what I gather this place in the Walks is the site of an open air swimming pool now long gone.

Nelson Street and Devil's Alley, King's Lynn

I guess all towns have their stories to keep the visitor wondering if his hosts are quite as sane as they appear. So it should not come as a surprise to hear that the Devil himself once came ashore here, at the back of Nelson Street, to collect souls or whatever a devil collects (maybe toilet paper and hand sanitizer, who knows?). Anyhow being as well known as he was (he face was in  every church and chapel, in those days) he was spotted by a priest and told to get himself gone and given a shower of holy water for his pains. Such an unfriendly reception displeased the old devil and he stamped his cloven foot leaving a mark which you can see to this day ... or so it is said.

Devil's Alley, which leads down to the river, is where all this happened and the tale must be true as a familiar of the devil still haunts old Nelson Street to this day.

 

Bandstand, Hunstanton

I've said it before that no place with any sort of get up and go can afford to be without a bandstand. So what if it sits (or is that stands?) there empty for 99.9% of its miserable existence; it is a testament to where a town wants to be ... a bandstanded kind of place. And so what if when it is actually being used for it is intended (and not as trysting place for malfeasance)  no-one stops to listen; they just think a band playing on the prom by the seaside on that one warm day in July (Tiddely-om-pom-pom!) is just so right and fitting that they float on by in a nostalgic revery.

The weekend in black and white is here.