I have it in mind to undertake a North Coast tour - the north coast of Norfolk that is. I’d like to do it as a tour, living in the van for a few days. Obviously for such a scheme I’d need a few days clear. One day last week being so sunny and warm, I thought an exploratory trip to the seaside was called for. I’d not been to The Wash or North Sea coasts for a couple of years and big water was calling me. I arrived in Hunstanton just before 2pm and headed for one of the car parks near the town centre. There were plenty of parking spaces so, having made my choice, I made for the ticket machine. I do get frustrated when some of these machines seem to require a PhD in computer programming - the variety of parking arrangements in places like, say, Peterborough gets me every time. This machine looked like one of the Peterborough types, but for some reason, the tickets would eventually be printed stating we were in Southend, not Hunstanton. I stood back to let the young man behind me pay first. Coins, cards, mobile apps - why does every car park require a different app? The reason I’ve no space on my phone for music is undoubtedly because of all the parking and railway apps I seem to need. If I take photographs I have to upload them almost immediately or the phone locks up because not one single byte of its 16gB complement is left available. The young man, though affecting nonchalance, may not have had much more of a clue than I had. He faffed with his phone so, becoming uncharacteristically assertive, I opted to insert coins. One of the great things about busking is that I generally have enough change for coin-operated machines. Sunny Hunny on a Thursday was going to cost me £5 for three hours. Three hours are usually enough for reconnaissance to find my spot, returning to the van to load the trolley, setting up back at the chosen place, playing for a couple of hours, packing up and departing.
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| Non Southend sed Hunstanton (to misquote Pope Gregory!) |
On the way I had imagined The Green to be a good busking place, but I’d forgotten just how much of a slope there is. My initial reconnaissance mission revealed there weren’t many people sitting on or perambulating across Hunstanton’s famous sward and a quick glance seawards suggested the esplanade was enjoying greater footfall. Finding a space far enough away from people who’d arrived before me was going to be tricky though. A posse of motorcyclists on a rally had lined their shiny mounts along the edge of the grass. Setting up along that wall would be inadvisable. The pavement the other side was just about wide enough, but anyone with a pushchair or wheelchair would be forced to go round me. Again that would have been inconsiderate so The Green it would have to be. I’d played there before with other projects, so there must have been somewhere on less of a slope. I was on my way back to the van when something made me return to check the municipal noticeboard that threatened to contain a list of byelaws I needed to know. I’m glad I made the effort because, indeed, no banners, flags or leaflets were allowed, and no unauthorised trading. No mention of music or busking, though, so good!
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| Set up by the bandstand |
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| Sunny Hunny Thursday with a teeming crowd of holidaymakers and some of the motorbikes |
On arriving back at The Green with my instruments and folding stool, the most level area of ground was the area around the bandstand. I rolled out my mat on the north side where there were no people close by. I prefer that people are drawn in more than driven away when my serenading begins. After an hour I had attracted little clumps of people who appeared close enough to be listening and far enough away not to engage. I also had just fifty pence in the hat. I was determined to carry on for a while longer to try to make my parking money back. In the middle of a song I caught a glimpse of the approach of someone who settled out of my vision behind my left shoulder. When I’d finished I turned to face a young smiling man wearing the black uniform bearing the Borough Council logo.
“Hello," I chirped, "Is everything okay?”
He nodded and smiled and told me how he loved to hear live music being performed in the town again, “but unfortunately you’ve been spotted on CCTV and I have to ask you to stop.”
“Oh, why is that?” I asked.
“It’s against the byelaws,” he answered.
Given my recent waterways battles I knew that challenging Byelaws produced variable results. He explained that, were it up to him, he’d be very happy for me to continue, but he’d been given his orders and I had to leave. I explained that I’d looked for a notice prohibiting music and had found nothing in the one I found, that the bandstand seemed like an appropriate place for music, that I’d played here on other occasions with other projects and that I had attracted a listening audience.
“Yes, but it’s against the Byelaws,” he explained very politely and patiently.
“Forgive me,” I said, “I’m not trying to be difficult, I’m just trying to get my head round the situation. Has someone complained?”
“CCTV,” he responded rather more solemnly.
Of course there could be no arguing with CCTV, whoever he or she was.
“Okay, so not a member of the public …” or a real person, I was going to say, but stopped myself just in time. CCTV was obviously powerful, maybe even his boss.
“The rules only apply to The Green and The Esplanade. There’s no problem if you go up to the High Street,” he offered helpfully.
So, I began to pack my instruments back into their cases, while an older woman took up my cause and asked him what the bandstand was for if not for music. It was very sweet of her, but we both knew there was not really any point in engaging in further discussion. I could not fault the functionary for his politeness, his approach, his apparent understanding. He was actually very charming and gave the impression of being genuinely apologetic and sympathetic. He even suggested a spot in the High Street I should try, because there had been a couple of buskers in that very spot that very morning. Twenty minutes later I was fully loaded and I set off up the hill towards the High Street. Hunstanton High Street is always one street further up the hill than I remember. It is invariably more deserted than I remember too and any shops that had been open were thinking about closing, so it was really quiet. I was still £4.50 down, though, so I thought I’d give it a try. As it happens it was actually worth it. I found the recommended spot outside a closed shop. There were a couple of café’s across the almost deserted road with a couple of afternoon tea-drinkers sitting at pavement tables. One or two people did go in and out of the nearby clothes shops near me. A man pulled up and switched off his engine to listen. He was smiling intermittently, but clearly listening. His passengers emerged from a bric-à-brac shop and still he refused to move. Three people in one vehicle listening; they were getting a drive-in concert. A woman came out of the clothes shop to my left, emerging between the hanging rails of beachwear to stand in front of me as I sang. This was the cue for the drive-in audience to drive off. That spell was broken. The woman started to search around in her bag, saying she had some change she would like to give me, because it is so nice to hear live music in the town after the great Covid silence. She apologised for not having much and bent down to drop it in the hat. Then she appeared to think better of it and straightened up again.
“You’re not on drugs, are you? I won’t give you any money if you’re on drugs …”
I really wanted to pursue the morality of this line of reasoning, but for the second time in an hour I held my tongue. I may not be able to make this a habit.
“No, I’m not on drugs,” I smiled. “To be honest, I’ve never even tried them …” I realise that, given my somewhat Bohemian appearance, some people find this difficult to believe, but enough was enough. “I ought to sing you a song if you have time to listen to a whole song,” I offered as she dropped her handful of coins into the hat. She liked that idea and, having spotted the CBD products shop across the street I explained about the inspiration for “Damn You, Enchiladas” and recommended she read Callie Blackwell’s account of her son’s leukaemia battle that prompted me to compose the song. As I concluded she was clearly moved and thanked me, promising to look for the “The Boy In 7 Billion”.
I had lost a lot of time having to move from my original spot and I only had time for a few more songs. As I sang, people appeared, slowed down, listened and a few dropped a coin in the hat. As it turned out this place was proving far more profitable than The Green. The owner of a restaurant on the corner came across and demanded to know why I’d appeared so late in the day when everything was closing. I explained about being ejected from The Green.
“Oh!” he said, “when are you coming back?”
I said it wouldn’t be for at least a couple of weeks.
“Right,” he said, “when you do come back, come and see me. I’ll sort you out with space to play by my shop. There were a couple of buskers here this morning and they were okay for a while, but to be fair they got a bit boring. You’re much more interesting and you have all this stuff too.” He gestured at my footdrums.
So there is, dear friends, hope in Sunny Hunny. I shall take up this restaurateur‘s offer on my next visit to the town, which will probably be when I start my North Coast Tour. The alarm on my phone signalled it was time to pack up. I made it back to the car park and loaded the van with one minute to spare and £6.33 in my hat. Result!
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