We’re trundling slowly towards the Norfolk coast, with pleasingly short jaunts between overnight stopovers, mainly because we can and – let’s face it – there’s no rushing a Knumptywagen.

Tonight finds us in a pub car-park in the delightful village of Castle Rising, named (we presume) after a big castle rising above the flint-built eighteenth century cottages which make up this picturesque and – until we arrived – unspoilt Norfolk settlement.

Now, like a dumped fridge, our incongruous white bulk occupies a corner of the Black Horse car-park, where we’re anticipative of evening hospitality and overnight shelter, commensurate with an earlier period in English history,  when travellers would prevail upon local inns and taverns to refresh both themselves and their horses – provided they plied the landlord with sufficient hard cash.

Whilst plipping a debit-card doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, it does serve to at least maintain the same symbiosis betwixt provider and consumer, so we’ll let you know how we are received and hopefully file a glowing report on the victuals we shortly plan to consume.

And talking of which, yesterday evening, rather surprisingly, the Navigating Troutess decided to supplement her meagre in-van diet with a wasp. This, she assures me, was totally unintentional and only recognised as a potentially dangerous form of protein when she found an early-evening swig from a bottle of beer to be uncharacteristically ‘lumpy’.

Thankfully, both beer and offending wasp were quickly expelled under significant pressure across both herself, myself and the general surroundings as we sat in otherwise calm, contemplative mood, watching two floats bob gently in a peaceful fishing pool. Not really wishing to consider the alarming consequences if the damn thing had actually stung her ‘en bouche’ or worse, we moved swiftly on to something a little stronger, this time with a stoppered neck, and – utilising a 4-year-old tin of Spam found at the back of a cupboard as bait – successfully caught one perch; one tench and one carp, the majority of which species we had not previously encountered, so some lightness of mood thence thankfully prevailed.

All of which contrasted significantly with today’s fishing expedition, where we plipped away a small fortune in exchange for a day’s fishing for trout – extensive shoals of which had clearly been trained to avoid capture by any means and were also astute enough to recognise a steadily accruing profit-margin if they remained in the water. Which they did.

In conclusion, our departure from an extremely well-maintained and agreeable Narborough Campsite & Fishery was heralded by low-level training runs of two flights of Red Arrow jets overhead, while we refilled our water-tank and poured away the unmentionables. Hopefully, we might return – and  unusually, would recommend the site to other Knumpties, who will hopefully be imbued with better fishing and wasp-detection skills than ours.