Tag: Cromer

Flat: Return to Felixstowe

Flat is a series of pieces on some trips I made into the heart of East Anglia with a little bit of music listening thrown in for good measure along the way. This is the fourth part of what will comprise seven posts and it covers the time I spent back in Felixstowe where I paid another visit to Treasure Chest.

You know, all through the weekend I had been kicking myself over the fact I hadn’t bought that copy of The Tantric Tradition by Agehananda Bharati, because I realised pretty much as soon as I was driving back to Woodford, that I definitely wanted it, needed it even. The desire to get my hands on it was no doubt amplified by the fact that when I returned home and checked it out online, I was more than a little staggered to see that copies of the 1992 Rider Books edition were now selling for well over 35 quid. The copy in Treasure Chest was just 3, being a 70’s reprint of the 1965 Rider Books original, and it was in pretty good condition too, so in terms of value, hopefully in terms of content as well, I knew that I just couldn’t go wrong.

There was already the nagging thought in my mind that someone else might have come along and snapped up that copy, bought it in those couple of days the shop would have been open since I had last been in there, although in reality the chances of that happening would have probably been pretty remote. All the same I sincerely hoped that it would not have been the case, but of course there was no way of telling until I got back to Treasure Chest to check if it was still on the shelf. The point was that the sooner I got myself to Felixstowe the better, then I would be able to get my hands on the copy and that would be the end of it. I was pretty damn sure it was going to contain some fascinating information as far as meditations on the subtle body were concerned, along with its composition and manipulation of the energies needed to aid the arousal of the primal power of kundalini. Otherwise it would be doubtful I would get to read it for quite some time, if ever. To fork out nearly 40 quid for it was going to be too high a price to pay, way too high, especially because it would be for something which I didn’t really know the full contents of. It was just a hunch on my part that, as far as The Tantric Tradition was concerned, I was on the right track, just a hunch that it would prove to be most useful, and that for 3 quid and a ride down to Felixstowe from Cromer, it was more than worth investing in both the time and effort.

By the time I got out of Cromer it was 1.30 in the afternoon and I calculated that if the going was good and there were no nasty surprises, it would take me around 2 hours to drive to Felixstowe, which would mean I would roll up on the seafront at around 3.30 in the afternoon. This would give me more than enough time to walk by the sweet North Sea and then take a hike up the hill into the centre of town in order to call back in on Treasure Chest. Yes, to once again walk through those maze-like rooms and corridors of the book stacked shop, and once I got to the end of it, reaching the section on Eastern Religions and Philosophies plus Occult, be able to pick up my precious copy of The Tantric Tradition. So I was happy I had followed the A148 to the end of the line and got to Cromer. Whilst Walsingham, my original place of intended destination, might have been a nice idea, in fact nice enough to get me out of the house and on the road again, I was glad I had not followed through on that part of the deal. In my own peculiar way I’d enjoyed Cromer, enjoyed my stroll around town which I had undertaken after having first parked up in the midday sun. Then I had more than enjoyed the box of fresh fish and chips I had eaten there, sitting under a solitary tree looking over an empty green, with the hot tasty fried stuff whilst swilling it down with an ice cold can of Coke. When the time was right things didn’t really get any better than that, at least not as far as I was concerned, but now that time was gone and I had to move on.

Continue reading “Flat: Return to Felixstowe” →

Flat: Cromer

Flat is a series of pieces on some trips I made into the heart of East Anglia with a little bit of music listening thrown in for good measure along the way. This is the third part of what will comprise seven posts and it covers the time I spent in Cromer where I had some pretty good fish and chips by the sea.

Blue sky day, wanted to hit the road, hit it big. Straight on up, due north and Norfolk bound, with a route something like M11, A14, A11, A1065. On Friday it was Essex, south Suffolk and then onto Felixstowe, Monday it was to be another trip into East Anglia. I set off with the intention that morning of going to Walsingham, ancient Norfolk pilgrimage place for Christians with its famous Virgin Mary shrine, holy destination for British kings and queens in years gone by, all the way back to the Anglo-Saxons. Yeah, that’s right, pre-Norman, pre-1066, pre-The Big One when so much of what came along is still here now.

By the time I got to Swafham which was about halfway up the A1065 I had changed my mind. Christian blessings for me? Really? Did I need to go to that kind of shrine? No, didn’t think so! Whatever it was which caused this change in thinking I just can’t say, spiritual arrogance most likely, but when the turning came for Walsingham, just east of Fakenham on the A148, I didn’t take it and carried on instead, even though I was suddenly unsure of where exactly I was heading. I needed to pull over, to double check, but as is so often the case in such situations I didn’t find the right place to take a pit stop, so I kept on going, with the warm Norfolk breezes blowing in through the open windows of my Prius, bringing on visions of eternity which seemed to be sittin’ behind me in the rear view mirror. Where did they come from, an’ where do they go? Well, who knows? The A148 was a fast road too, and with the time coming up close to midday I found myself bombing along through the open spaces of north Norfolk almost as if I was in a trance. I thought that Sheringham by the coast would be a place to aim for, but I just could not see any signs for it, none at all, not even a sheriff to help me, and therefore didn’t know if I was on the right track or not.

The recently burnt How Big How Bold How Beautiful by Florence + the Machine had been on the sound system of the Prius on my way up the M11 earlier that morning, but not for too long, maybe as far as Stansted, something like that; four or five tracks at most was all that was needed from the Florence Machinery on this occasion. Then it was Def Leppard, this time their eponymous Def Leppard album from 2015, a fine piece of work which in my humble opinion more than restored their credentials after its less than impressive predecessor Songs From The Sparkle Lounge, an album that came out back in 2008. If you don’t believe me, check out tracks like Let’s Go, Invincible, All Time High and Wings Of An Angel to see, or rather to hear, how good Def Leppard really is. As an immaculately produced slice of melodic pop rock cut through with a dash of metal, itshone in all its glory once I reached the A11, where on the luminous highway of a perfect day the voice of Joe Elliott reared up from over my shoulder, singing all about how We Belong.

Continue reading “Flat: Cromer” →