Fellow Foodies and Travellers,
Sabrina and I hope you enjoy this third edition of ‘revisited’.
Every so often we’re mining our memories of a beloved travel destination for additional material and there’s nowhere wilder and more elemental in Eastern England than the salt marshes on Norfolk’s north coast.
Marco & Sabrina
There was a moment of hushed anticipation at dusk on the salt marshes at Blakeney, then right after the sun set and the first streaks of pink and orange light were appearing, a flock of what must have been a thousand geese took off in a cacophony of honks towards the sea. The moment reminded me of another desolate place with vast skies a world away, where the sound of millions of insects suddenly ‘turned on’ as dusk descended on desert dunes in Death Valley. Turning my collar up against the cold I walked ever so slowly back to our hotel as hints of pink and orange turned finally to streaks of vermilion as darkness fell.
The National Trust has protected this pristine reserve for decades, though nature too has played its part, as without the silting up of the harbour entrance the quays and wharves of Blakeney and neighbouring Cley might still rival the port of Yarmouth for trade, as they did in the reign of England’s great Tudor queen, Elizabeth 1st. Buffered to the west by the Holkham National Nature Reserve (the largest in the country) this section of the Norfolk coastline is protected in perpetuity from the calamity of caravan parks further east.
If this is a stretch of English seaside like none we’ve ever seen, it has also confounded our expectations in another way. Twenty years is an awful long time to wait for anything, let alone a shellfish dish, but Sabrina had avoided eating Lobster Thermidor in English restaurants for that long, after a desperately disappointing experience on a milestone birthday. We’d chosen the long ago closed Manzi’s in London’s West End, where amongst the ‘iconic’ red gingham tablecloths and plastic loaves hanging from the ceiling, her lobster shells were filled with sauce and little else.
Buoyed by the beauty of our surroundings, an impeccably mixed cocktail in the hotel bar, the crisp white linens in the restaurant and the serving of a fine looking specimen to the table next door, Sabrina didn’t hesitate and two decades of hurt dissolved as she delightedly dug the meat out of the shells.
Lobster Thermidor: Serves Four as a starter, or Two as a main dish.
I’ve never understood why in a country like England, with so much natural bounty it’s so difficult to find good, affordable shellfish. Scotland puts it to shame, but that’s another story.
2 cooked lobsters about 1kg each
1 cup of milk
1 small onion, thinly sliced
1 bay leaf
30g butter
2 tablespoons of plain flour or gluten free flour
300ml double cream
3/4 cup of grated gruyere or any tasty cheese
2 tbsps dijon mustard
1 tablespoon olive oil
1/2 cup dry white wine
1 tablespoon of brandy
2 spring onions finely chopped
chopped parsley for garnish
grated parmesan cheese for topping
Split the 2 lobsters in half, remove and discard the stomach and the dark vein that runs along the tail meat; remove the tail meat and from the claws, cut into bite size pieces and put to one side. Rinse the lobster cavity and dry.
In a small saucepan combine the milk, onion and bay leaf, bring to the boil and gently simmer for 2 minutes. Strain and discard the onion and bay leaf. In a larger saucepan, melt the butter and stir in the flour, cook for 1 minute, turn the heat off. Using a balloon whisk, whisk the hot milk gradually until all the milk is incorporated. Return to the heat and boil until it thickens, remove from the heat and add the cheese, cream and mustard, stir to combine, set aside.In a frypan. Heat the olive oil, add the green onions, stir for 1 minute, add the wine and brandy, bring to the boil and boil rapidly until reduced by half. Stir in the white sauce mixture and lobster pieces, gently heat through, stirring constantly. Spoon the mixture into the lobster shells, sprinkle parmesan cheese over and place under the grill/broiler until lightly brown, garnish with parsley and serve.
The next morning, Sabrina and I take the circular walk across the marshes towards Cley’s 18th century windmill, stumbling upon a scene that could have been from that same century, as reeds are being harvested in the time-honoured fashion, by scythe. Fortunately the two members of the North Norfolk Reed Cutters Association are more than happy to pause for a chat. We learn that they work intensively in the reed beds of Cley and Brancaster from Christmas to February every year, when harsh frosts kill the leaf of the reed and for a brief few weeks they are dry enough to cut. This annual harvest provides the materials for North Norfolk’s roof thatchers (reed thatch is still a popular roof covering around these parts).
Still in our 18th century bubble we stroll through the parkland of the magnificently austere Palladian Revival Holkham Hall. The great house is shuttered for the season, so our only companions are the estate’s herd of fallow deer. Just inland from that other important Tudor era port Wells-next-the-Sea, Holkham and its neighbour, the Sandringham Estate are a reminder that noblesse (and royalty) can still on occasion ‘oblige’, as the two estates gifted the vast parcels of land to the National Trust that began the formation of the Holkham National Nature Reserve more than a half century ago.
Back in Blakeney in time for a second spectacular sunset walk across the salt marshes, Sabrina and I can’t help but reflect on whether in the old pre-pandemic ‘normal’ we would ever have chosen this savage stretch of English coastline as a January escape.
Our old selves would probably have been sitting on a café terrace in Andalucía sipping Tinto de Verano, but right now in this lingering parallel life there’s no place we’d rather be than here.
What a lovely, evocative post.
I shall add this to my list of desirable salt marshes to visit!
Before reading Marco's wonderfully atmospheric portrait of the under-appreciated Norfolk Coast, my only encounters with Blakeney were with the 1969 Derby winner (won me enough money to keep a penniless 15-year-old afloat in cider for a few weeks) and Sir Percy, better known as the Scarlet Pimpernel. Now another Blakeney has been added to this list and, thanks to Marco, I can't wait to visit.