There is a river my family is fond of. We know it well. The River Thurne ebbs and flows much like our return to it. So far three generations of our family have continued their summer visits here and it is a tradition that is beautiful.

The River Thurne runs through Potter Heigham beneath an old medieval bridge. When the water level of the river rises with the tide, the space below the bridge is so tight that nervous boats turn around to find other passages. It makes for an interesting spectacle from the banks with an ice cream or cone of chips.

I remember my first visits here, I was maybe 4 or 5 and my parents would bring us for a week’s summer holiday. There would be a boat hired for the week to go exploring the broads. Its first job was to take a week’s worth of luggage and food down the river to our rented bungalow. The car would be pulled up next to the staithe, our suitcases, boxes of food and teddy bears would be unloaded onto the gravel path and we with it. One parent would hoist the boxes from the ground to the other parent in the boat. All the while we sat, good little children, watching the ducks. Like the game tetris our belongings would be loaded methodically into the boat and we would then fit into the gaps for the short journey down river. The green and white bungalow had a huge green lawn dotted with daisies and a beaten up old tree that welcomed you to your week long stay. I look out for it, even now. It has one double room and a twin room that my brothers and I shared. The boxes that the food was brought in would be flattened and placed up against the window to try and bar the room from the morning sunlight. It would stream through the windows at 5am and wake us kids for the day. The flattened box meant my parents got an extra 2-3 hours sleep. However there was the odd duck call from the water outside that would have me bending back the cardboard to peek at the river, flooding the room with daylight and beginning the day. It is a sound now that returns my mind to that time and place no matter where I am in the world.

I learned to fish here. I learned to drive a boat. And just today I learned not to be the one holding a big ice cream on a sunny day whilst someone runs to the toilet. As I stood there waiting, cream running down my forearm, I heard my grandad laughing in my head. It would have amused him to no end.

He loved it here. He would get up before the sun and set up his fishing rod. Sitting with the river before anyone else was awake, watching the rod for its slightest movement indicating a bite from a passing fish. Nodding off in his chair with the river lapping against the bank. His return meant that breakfast was ready and after breakfast the day’s plans were decided. Usually it was a boat trip along the river to a pub for lunch. There are no white water rafting experiences or rapids on this river, it slowly moves on and gives you peace away from the hustle and bustle that life generally throws at you. You’ll find a leisurely paced trip on a spluttering old boat making you question, why? But the truth is, spending three hours on the peaceful waters, watching the wind in the reeds and the birds in the sky, is just the break you didn’t know you needed. As kids, we would sit in the boat awaiting the call of ‘ducks ahead’ and spring into action with our pre-bought duck food. If you ever saw an enormously overweight duck in the late 90’s waddling around the Norfolk Broads it is highly likely my family were the cause. A pub lunch was a quick pit stop with lunch favourites of sausage and mash or fish and chips. Cries of ‘Mum, can we have some 2p’s, Dad got any change?’ so us kids could play the old arcade game in the corner. Then back to the boat to beat the sun returning to the horizon. It seems so simple now. A whole day spent on a journey and a meal but it was what my childhood was made of. The sounds of the river. The smells in the wind.

Even today, as I sit on the wooden riverside porch, I am beckoned to the water to see the ‘omg, look at the ducklings! 13!’ It’s taken me 15 minutes to come back to my spot and continue on. Yes they are tiny. Yes she is clever for having 13 (!). And yes, despite my grumbles I will race around with a camera for the hundredth time in my 34 years to take photos, coo over them and share the disbelief. This is what this place does. It repeats the experience but it never grows old.

There is a photo somewhere of my dad taken here. He stretches up towards the sky with a piece of bread between his finger and thumb. A swan next to him, reaches up at full height, stretching its neck long, wings spread for balance. I remember it every time a swan passes.

Photos of cousins crammed into a boat.

My brother catching a pike, a first for the family.

Maggot races on paving slabs while the adults fished.

Being slimed by an eel, wriggling on a hook.

Mid-day chip shop runs to the best chippy known to man.

This place is steeped into my history. Ingrained in our story.

A rainstorm that made a boat journey across a deep broad unforgettable. Barn owls flying over the field as you prepared dinner. Countless tips of the hat as families passed you on their day cruisers. Silent cups of tea at 7am taken outside, in the chill of the morning, just to say hello and good morning to the river. The ducks quacking. The seagulls screeching. The far flung fields of cows throwing up the odd moo. The ever present lap of water against an aged wooden bank. The ‘eeeee’ of a fishing line as it is cast across the water and the plonk as it lands, disappearing into the depths.The sounds that anywhere else are just background noise but here are moments of history popping up to say ‘remember me.’

Three generations that return like the flowing river to carry on the tradition started by a man who chose this as his place to escape and remember what was important. I like to think that even though we move from the same path at times, we come back together in important times and share laughter once more. Our journeys are changing everyday, branching out like tributaries finding their way and yet always remembering where we came from and how to go back.

The River Thurne has a new neighbour. An oiled, cared for bench bearing a tribute to a man who once sat at the head of this family. His name is engraved on the metal plaque that sums up his life and this place. When it comes to describing this place and why we return it is hard to put into words. We come. We sit. We drink and eat. Simple pleasures, with wordless actions and to ‘Sit with me a while’.


Photo by Dave Watson

Please check out his work on https://www.instagram.com/davewatson_uk/ or at https://davewatson1980.picfair.com