A Tour Round Norfolk: Holt

Holt, home to Gresham's School and the over-priced boutique, is situated a few miles inland from the North Norfolk coast. Holt appears to have been spared the fate of other 'market towns' in Norfolk (i.e. rapid decline) due to two factors. First, it doesn't appear to actually have a market, although I could be wrong on this point and am sure someone will gently correct me if I am. Second, as I mentioned earlier, it boasts 'Norfolk's 'Premier' Private School', and thus attracts quite a posh clientele both in terms of inhabitants and visitors.
Although I like Holt, it also fills me with an instant sense of impending doom. This is due more to associations I have with it than to the town itself.
As a young child I travelled through Holt every week day on the way to school. It represented that half way marker between home and school when you realised that you hadn't managed to convince your mum that you had stomach ache, and had reached the point of no return and death by spelling test.
Many years later I had my first driving lessons in Holt which were also cause for stomach churning fear, mainly on the part of other road users and pedestrians. I wasn't a naturally observant driver and frequently used to fail to stop at the pedestrian crossing in the centre of the town. There is always an added frisson of danger when driving in Holt as it is pretty much devoid of pavements but plentiful in its supply of ambling tourists, elderly residents and Boden-bedecked yummy mummies just popping into Larners for some Vignotte.
More recently it was the venue for our wedding and, although I felt very little in the way of nerves that day, I shall never forget driving down the road parallel to the church and seeing the rows of cars parked there. I experienced that moment of it all becoming 'real'. People had actually turned up for it and were in the church waiting for me including, I hoped, my future husband.
As far as I am aware there are few actual tourist attractions in Holt. It's more a case of the whole town being an attraction it itself. There are lots of quirky shops and boutiques, an Art Gallery and of course Byfords which does fantastic cakes. If you have a mid-morning snack there you won't need to eat for the rest of the day, but then, if you've spent the day in Holt you probably won't be able to afford to eat for the rest of the day!

My Inner Baptist

I had a traditional Baptist upbringing, and despite the fact that I have now largely rejected the whole charismatic church package, it remains a significant, if unwelcome influence on my life even today. For example, if I am required to provide food for a social gathering I experience a strange compulsion to take quiche. I am also totally unable to even contemplate reading 'Fifty Shades of Grey' due to strict ideas about, well you know, sex. The Baptist guide to teenage boy/girl relationships could be summed up in one phrase. 'If you haven't got one, don't touch it'. I guess if you had the nerve to be a gay Baptist then the advice would be 'If you have got one, don't touch it anyway'.
My young son recently asked what a virgin was. I floundered about for a bit before deciding on "It's someone who hasn't had a boyfriend or girlfriend", and instantly imagining all sorts of unspeakably embarrassing and potentially incriminating scenarios where I had to explain to the head teacher/vicar/magistrate that what he actually meant when he said he wasn't a virgin was...You get the idea. When my sister-in-law (also indoctrinated from an early age and also a fellow escapee) heard about this question she said "What were you thinking of? You should just have told him it was someone who isn't married!"
A few months go I was in Barcelona with a colleague looking at the most beautiful designer coat. It was in the sale and there was only one left. I was umming and aahing about whether to get it, arguing that I didn't need it. "What do you mean NEED?", she asked incredulously. "Do you LIKE it? Will it make you feel good wearing it?"
"Yes", I replied, adding feebly "I can't help it. I'm a Baptist". It must have been an amusing scene to behold as my friend stood in the middle of Desigual, urging me in a loud voice, "Fight your Inner Baptist. Come on. Fight it and win". I did. I bought the coat and I love it. Now, whenever that little voice pipes up in my head telling me that I am 17 years old again and that I must eat quiche and not have sex I put my hands over my ears like a child and sing 'La, la, la not listening!'