Monday 28 July 2014

THE BIG CIRCLE

As a retired leisure walker, my achievements are always likely to be classified as 'modest.' Frankly, I missed out on places like the Derbyshire or Yorkshire Dales, and the Lake District, and reached not the high places. Strength and stamina were always a problem to the extent that an easy, relaxed gait was my trademark stride, prompting one walking companion to describe my gear changes as three-fold: slow, slower, and stop.
Another reason, in addition to a lack of stamina, was that I didn't really start proper walking (ie, for several days at a stretch, with a tent and rucksack) until I was nearly 40, and even at that age home comforts were hard to push into the background.
Nevertheless, I did manage the annual Breckland Forest Walk (23 miles, I believe) four or five times, finishing every time, though I did faint on one particularly hot day. And I have walked the Norfolk Coast Path three or four times and the Peddars Way a dozen times. Earlier challenges, dreamed up by myself and a colleague, were a cross-Norfolk east to west walk; I forget where we started from, but we ended up at Hunstanton in a thunderstorm. And we also attempted to walk Norfolk's bit of the Icknield Way, but it gave us a lot of road walking and we couldn't find much of the Icknield, anyway.
Within Norfolk, however, the Blue Riband of walking is or was the Big Circle, or Round Norfolk walk, now available in several guises and by several routes, but which in my day comprised the aforementioned Peddars Way and Coast Path, plus the Weaver's and the Angles Way.
To be perfectly honest I did not walk them in one continuous 'go,' but always as separate walks done at different times. If it still counts, then I can say I have walked the Big Circle twice, and parts of it much more than that. However you do it, it is an experience I heartily recommend.
The Peddars is the Peddars, of course, my favourite path, with the ever changing views of the Coast Path not far behind. These two will take you from Knettishall Heath to Hunstanton (or Holme) and then east round the north Norfolk coast to Cromer; whereas the Weaver's Way will lure you all the way from Cromer to Great Yarmouth.
We found the Weaver's an if-and-but sort of route, characterised by a singular lack (at that time) of facilities and rather too much time spent on former railway lines, for it tends to put you into nice green and tree-lined cuttings and then keep you there. Three miles on and you're still in a nice, green, tree-lined cutting. It's still an entertaining yomp, though.
However, the Angles Way is or was a quite different kettle of fish, taking the walker from Yarmouth alongside Breydon Water and Halvergate Marsh (where I once fell over a stile) and on as far as Knettishall, where you complete the circle. You follow rivers and nip back and forth across the Norfolk/Suffolk boundary so many times it is as though you're stitching them together. A fascinating walk, then, and aside from the Coast Path perhaps the most varied of the lot.
Have I missed walking elsewhere? Well, yes. I have yomped on Dartmoor and walked near Edale, but I can't help seeing TV shots of some of Wainwright's walks on the high hills without feeling a pang of disappointment that I missed out. Did I start too late in life? Yes, I did. And could I do it now? No, not with the sort of legs I'm left with.
The high places, the thrill of strapping on a rucksack and setting off for a few days, the night camps and bonfires, the fresh air and wayside pubs, are no longer for me in a walking sense. But I do have my memories, and try to be content.



Friday 25 July 2014

DIVING BELL TOLLS

It is too easy, and perhaps even boring, to continue ranting on about the World Football Cup, but if I need to do just that then I would say the most pleasing aspect of the competition was that all-out aggression, in an attacking football sense, seemed to have taken over from cautious defensive play. In so many previous tournaments there were always sides which were determined not to lose, of  'playing for the point,' as we used to say. This time - and it might have been the heat, which undoubtedly sapped energy and thus created more space - most sides demonstrated they actually wanted to win.
This was good news. And so was the fact that no-one seemed to find it necessary to play with a sweeper, an extra defensive player behind the back four - as opposed to an extra man in front. I do hope this new-found desire to create open, attacking play is continued into the Premiership and the Championship. Mind you, there are still those who say that a point from a 0-0 draw is a better result that the loss of a 4-3 thriller. And they are right, of course. It depends on your outlook, I suppose.
But what is FIFA going to do about all those prolonged and embarrassing goal celebrations, and all the diving? In several of the matches in Brazil, a spin and a roll every couple of minutes seemed obligatory to the point that it was almost possible to anticipate when the next player would hit the grass. And roll, and grimmace with pain. You recognise the scenario: an attacker breaks forward, a defender closes in, and you know, just know, that one of them will 'roll' his opponent or spin to the ground having felt the slightest touch.
The shoulder charge seems to have been forgotten and lost in the mists of time. But the real danger, if the diving continues, is that the game could become much more predictable and that physical contact on the field might disappear altogether. That leaves us with the TV slo-no replay cameras, which will be called upon to adjudicate every few minutes. And it's a boring thought.

FLYAWAY FLIES

A few weeks' ago I saw and heard a motorcyclist snarl and scythe his way at speed up a local hill, but more to the point, he was not wearing goggles. And I thought, 'A-ha. You couldn't have done that a few decades ago.' Then, he could not have ridden a hundred yards without getting something in his eye, muck or dust, or some sort of insect. Specially an insect.
In the late 1950s you had to wash the car windscreen after every summer outing, and I can even recall having to resort to a chisel to scrape the skeletal remains of flies and other flying things off the glass. And do you recall those plastic deflectors which were screwed on to the radiator cap in the vain hope they would deflect the flying things away from the driver's sight?
So where have all the flying things gone? Where are the clouds of gnats? There simply don't seem to be insects or tiny things about any more, or at least, not in 1950s numbers. Gardens seem bereft. We have a number of flowers and shrubs that butterflies love, but we're lucky if we see one. And whereas the most potent backdrop noise of summer used to be buzzing bees, now it is the flutterings of a couple of randy pigeons. And instead of gnats and ticks, all we have are slugs, some as big as anacondas.
So where have all the insects gone, and more to the point, will they come back? A lower link of the food chain seems to have gone missing.  

Wednesday 23 July 2014

THE GOLDEN GATES

There is an old folklore yarn (though I suppose, by implication, all folklore stories are old), told my whom and coming from where I do not know, that once upon a time a pair of Golden Gates were buried in the north-west Norfolk area. It is not a well-known story, but I have seen it mentioned at least twice if not three times among the writings of Charles Lewton Brain, who three decades or so ago wrote occasional articles, largely about archaeology, for the EDP. 
Charles was born at Swanton Morley, near East Dereham, and educated at King's Lynn, and after service in World War One spent his working life in a London bank. On retirement to Heacham on the north-west Norfolk coast, however, he quickly developed a passion for archaeology that was to last the rest of his life. One of his specialisms was the Icknield Way, though two of his other titles related to Heacham itself and to the history of the Sandringham Royal estate. A later publication which caught my eye was Walking on Buried History, which collected together a number of his EDP articles.
There is a slight problem here in that he places the Golden Gates story in two different, albeit close together, locations. In Mounds, Mottes and Barrows, he writes of the mound related to the Golden Gates legend as being at the back of the porter's lodge at Appleton. Here he evidently spoke to a local worthy who said this was indeed the location of the legend, and that the mound in question was also the resting place of a 'Roman general.' 
In Places and People, however, he placed the mound closer to Heacham, not far from a field which in Tudor times was known as Cattel Wong and was adjacent to the course of the Icknield Way and next door to the field which contained the Golden Gates mound.
So what were these Golden Gates? To begin with, Appleton and Heacham are not that far apart. Both locations are close to the assumed line of the Icknield Way, and most tellingly, the Golden Gates story - if the story is still told today - is still in a part of the Norfolk countryside which does have a close association with gold. I refer to Ken Hill and the discoveries there and around the Heacham and Sedgeford district, of Iron Age torcs, and the feeling that, in those long gone days, there must have been precious metal workshops in the vicinity. More-over, and assuming this to be true, then there must also have been regular movements and shipments of gold - possibly mostly for re-use - in and out of the district.
Of course, it is all too easy to assume there is some sort of connection between the puzzling folklore story of Golden Gates and the Iron Age torc trade, but as far as I know there is nothing at all to link them.
On the other hand, what if the Gates were not gates at all, but a tunnel or defile thickly decorated with the blazing yellow flowers of broom or, much more likely in that area, gorse? I have seen patches of gorse in the sandy Brecklands when, with the sun out and the gorse at its brilliant best, one could be forgiven for thinking that the landscape was burnished with gold.
Personally, I live in hope that gorse is not at the bottom of the story, which must be deeply embedded in some folk memory or other. I'd like to hear of the Golden Gates mound finally being identified and excavated, and a further cache of Iron Age torcs being brought to the surface. We live in hope.
(Walking on Buried History, by Charles Lewton Brain. Larks Press, 2009).

Sunday 20 July 2014

BRITON THE MAN

During the last few years there has been a literary fashion for choosing what I tend to refer to as 'off-centre' subjects, or characters, as the basis for a book, most obviously fictional. It is a clever and useful device, for it allows the author to use his or her imagination often within the framework of a known structure. There is a delicate balance to be struck here, though, and thus a need for author responsibility, for a known actual event will have its own applecart, which is very easy to upset.
Some years ago, for example, and following a visit to Thailand and the river Kwai, I wrote a novel based on a fictional peacetime incident which, I decreed, had occurred on the infamous bridge. A number of former prisoners of war of the Japanese, held captive in the Kwai area, bought the book and hated it because it didn't tell the story they wanted to read.
'I can't remember that happening,' one said to me, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I had made it up. Another protested, 'It weren't like that at all.' My protestations that it was a novel, and therefore that all of the events were a fiction, fell on deaf ears. Its sales therefore died an early death.
Thus off-centre tales - fictionalising not the main character, but someone in the background - can be tricky, though some authors, it seems, can carry it off. I am thinking particularly of the novel, The Paris Wife (based on one of the wives of Ernest Hemingway), and the book and film of, The Girl With the Pearl Earring (based on one of the models of the artist Vermeer).
My own off-centre interest for some time has been Briton, the Rev James Woodforde's 'man' who, according to the parson's diaries, joined his household staff at the rectory of Weston Longville in 1785.
Interesting chap, Briton, particularly when you begin to fictionalise his background. Even so, real puzzles remain. To begin with, why did the Rev Woodforde give him this nickname? There are various theories, which I won't go into now. But more interestingly, who as he? A local lad, perhaps, seeking to better himself? I confess it did come as a surprise, some time later, to realise that Briton's real name was Brettingham Scurll. So perhaps it was the surname Scurll that the Reverend didn't like, and declined to use. Nevertheless, he still sounded interesting, even though the trail immediately ran cold.
Then, suddenly, and several years' later, I found him. Or at least, I think I did. I happened to be browsing a copy of White's 1845 Norfolk (reprinted by David & Charles in 1969), flicking over the pages randomly, when quite suddenly I spotted him, the name leaping out at me. Page 355, in fact, under the directory listing for the village of Reepham. And there, among Reepham's tradesmen, was Brettingham Potter Scurll, baker, and Thomas Scurll, also a baker.
Was it the same Brettingham Scurll who, 43 years later, joined the parson's staff at Weston Longville? In which case Briton must have been a mature, even aged, fellow when he was taken on. Or was this Brettingham's father? Again, was it a family business. And who was Thomas?
I confess I don't know, and I may not take the matter any further. Not in terms of trying to write a novel about him, anyway. But I did find it fascinating to think that two unconnected volumes, one a modern concise copy of a 19th century parson's diaries, and the other, a 1960s reprint of a 19th century Norfolk trades directory, should link themselves together in such an off-centre sort of way.

Tuesday 15 July 2014

IN CONVOY

Some sixty years' ago my Uncle Jack, who lived in Nottingham and who would occasionally visit us in south Lincolnshire to take us for a motoring 'day trip' into Norfolk, became obsessed with that county's signposts, many of which pointed the way to Byroad, or as Jack used to call it, 'Byro-ad.' He said he wanted to find this mysterious place, which was not on any map that he possessed, before someone - possibly my father - pointed out the joke was on him.
Whereupon a chastened Uncle Jack changed tactics and wryly suggested 'off-piste' Norfolk forays following Byroad signs, just for the fun of it. The ploy took us to some lovely spots but, as family legend has it, we never did find Byro-ad. Truly, a lost village.
My own acquaintance with Norfolk properly began over 50 years ago when I moved to Norwich and we, as a couple and then as a family, began a fresh 'game' not looking for signposts marked Byroad, but searching for tiny lanes and roads which had grass growing down the middle. Norfolk has dozens of them, and they represent a wonderful pastime. Mind you, some of these grassy lanes can be very narrow indeed, which can lead to difficulties with the car, but by and large it was a relaxed diversion and a pastime which did not cost a penny, aside from the petrol.
However, being older and wiser, we now have a new game we sometimes play when driving in the county. We call it Tractors, and it is all about the number of vehicles each on-coming tractor has trailing behind it as it chunters majestically along the highway.
It is necessary to realise that the roads in many parts of Norfolk are single carriageway hemmed in by hedges, trees, verges or fields, and that they can be very twisty. Opportunities to overtake are therefore restricted and confined to occasional straight sections with a good view ahead, and on those few occasions when there is nothing approaching from the opposite direction. In other words, it is very easy to become 'trapped' behind a slower moving car or lorry or tractor, and quite common for convoys of following vehicles to form. Some residents have learned to be patient, or have acquired an outstanding knowledge of local short cuts. We, however, tend to turn these frequent long, slow moving convoys into another light distraction.
In our game, only tractors count. And it must be a tractor approaching on the opposite side of the road, otherwise you yourself simply become part of someone else's game. Sometimes there are only one or two vehicles in procession, in which case we dismiss the tractor driver as being a young chap still learning his trade. But you can count eight to ten vehicles in a queue, which is reasonable and average. A decent haul of vehicles following behind a tractor is therefore deemed to be a dozen to 20, which is a catch of some quality.
The absolute top record, as far as we are concerned, was achieved in early May this year when, driving from Norwich back to the north Norfolk coast, we encountered a tractor travelling in the opposite direction which had 69 - yes, 69 - vehicles trailing in its wake. I know the arithmatic is correct because on this occasion I was the passenger in the car and it was my job to count them. It was, without argument, a Premiership quality performance.
It actually reminded me of a conversation I once heard in a rural pub, when a farmer came in for a pint and one of the regulars said to him, 'What've you bin doing? I saw you out on the tractor and trailer with a load of manure, and half an hour later saw you driving back with the manure still aboard.' The farmer sipped his beer and put down his glass. 'I were just taking it out for an airing,' he said.

Friday 11 July 2014

CONSEQUENCES

You don't have to look too far to find examples of consequences, where a decision to do or not do something impacts on something else. Sneeze, and someone else catches your cold. That sort of thing. Well, football is like that, too. In fact, if you look at it like that, virtually the whole of the modern game is the result, intended or unintended, of decisions taken much earlier.
Crossbars and nets were brought into being because of disputes over whether the ball had or had not crossed the line; and the offside rule came about because, in the very early days of the game, some bright spark came up with the idea of stationing a number of attackers on the opposing side's goalline, telling them to stay there. Ruination of the game beckoned, until some equally bright spark came up with the idea of offside.
There are comparatively modern changes which have also had significant consequences. Many years ago, at Carrow Road, the manager of a visiting London club declined to name his team, which duly came out for the kick-off against Norwich City with no-one in the crowd knowing who they were. I seem to remember that the London club's travelling Pressman, who was an embarrassed about it as anyone else, kindly put names to all the faces so that we could at least report what was happening, and more importantly, who was doing what.
Then another manager (was it the same one?) came up with the wheeze of changing all the numbers on his players' backs, or perhaps persuading the players to swap shirts. In those days, teams ran mostly on railway lines, straight and unchanging. No 2 was always the right-back, No 4 the right-half, and No 10 the inside-left. And so on. But he jumbled players and numbers, so that his outside-right took the field wearing not No 7 but No 6, and the left-back was No 8 not No 3. And so on. I don't remember who was the more flummoxed, visitors or home fans, but the consequences of both these abberrations was, eventually, a ruling that a team sheet had to be handed to the referee 30 minutes prior to kick-off.
The substitute saga is even better known, of course. When the rule was first introduced it was for one sub only, and a change to be made only if another player was injured and unable to continue. It was soon abused. If a manager wanted to make a change, then one of his players would feign injury in order to comply. The injury requirement had to go, and it did, so that a change could then be made at any time. But it opened the door for more and more subs, and in consequence there occurred a slow evolution from a team to a squad game.
So, what are we to make of recent attempts to introduce Premier League B teams, (a) because not enough young English players are getting enough games at a reasonable level, and (b) because many squad players are simply not getting enough outings? Could all this, I wonder, be a consequence of the decision, some years ago, and on economic grounds, I'm sure, to disband the Football Combination divisions?
In the 1950s, when some League clubs had very big staffs, the first team played in the Football League, the reserves (usually) in the Football Combination, and the A team (probably) in one of the local leagues, such as the old and fondly remembered Eastern Counties League. Everyone was happy, and everyone got regular, competitive games.
This sort of structure is probably too simplistic for today's requirements, but please don't say it is too expensive, because Premiership clubs could afford it. If they really wanted to.

Tuesday 8 July 2014

WALKING TALL

Professional walking - walking for money, that is, for prize money or gambling purposes - had a relatively short span of popularity during the 18th and early 19th centuries, and is little known today. One of its legacies, I suppose, is the manner of walking (heel and toe, I believe they used to call it) sometimes seen in the Olympic Games. But it was a thrilling spectacle in its day - as endurance dancing was during the American Depression years - so much so that at Newmarket the course for one such contest was floodlit and crowds turned up night and day.
Some of the challenges were formidable and harked back to Classical times. Philonides, the runner of Alexander the Great, is said to have covered 1,200 stadia (a stadia was about 184 metres) from Sicyone to Ellis; while during the reign of Nero a nine-year-old boy is said to have run 75,000 paces between noon and night. Nearer home, one Robert Bartley, who was born about 1719 and may have come from Norfolk, frequently walked from Thetford to London in a single day; while in 1787 a pedestrian from Hampshire, named Reed, walked 100 miles in a day.
These were endurance tests for reward, of course, but a chap named Foster Powell, a Yorkshireman, did it for betting money. In 1773 he walked from London to York and back again in six days for a wager of 100 guineas; and in September, 1787, he walked from the Falstaff Inn, Canterbury, to London Bridge and back in ten minutes less than 24 hours, a distance of 109 miles.
Much of the information for this comes from a book with one of the longest titles I have ever come across (see below), and which is one of my prized possessions. Walter Thom's account of the history of pedestrianism, as the sport was called, was combined with his account of the walking career of perhaps the greatest pedestrian of them all, an Army officer named Capt Robert Barclay Allardice, otherwise Capt Barclay. And some of his pedestrian achievements were mindblowing.
Early in his career, Barclay walked 64 miles in 12 hours, and a year later, in 1800, was taking wagers that he could cover 90 miles in 21 and a half hours. I should add here that the wagers, and the contests, were organised and overseen by chosen officials, because it was such a big business. The top pedestrians trained hard, too, and fascinatingly, Mr Thom devotes a big slab of his book to some of Barclay's training routines.
Barclay's career reached a peak when he was challenged to go 1,000 miles in 1,000 successive hours, at a rate of a mile and a half in each and every hour, throughout the night and day, to be performed on Newmarket Heath beginning in June, 1809. The wager was 1,000 guineas. There was a frenzy of betting, and so high was public excitement that not a bed was to be had in either Newmarket or Cambridge. Some fans even watched the night-time sessions, and lights were erected for their benefit.
This extraordinary feat of endurance was successfully concluded on July 12th, watched by thousands of spectators. Barclay covered the very last mile on the 42nd day in 22 minutes, having walked the 1,000 miles in 296 hours at a rate of just over 81 miles every 24 hours. Five days after he finished the challenge, the Army sent him to Ramsgate where he joined a military expedition to Walcheren.
Original 1813 copies of Walter Thom's book are very hard to find, rare even, but I have one, newly bound, and I treasure it.
(Pedestrianism; or An Account of the Performances of Celebrated Pedestrians during the Last and Present Century; with a Full Narrative of Captain Barclay's Public and Private Matches; and an essay on Training. By Walter Thom. Printed by Chalmers of Aberdeen for various publishers; 1813. And The Celebrated Captain Barclay, by Peter Radford, Headline, 2001).

Friday 4 July 2014

GENERATION CHANGE

It was a very emotional business watching, via television, and listening, to D-Day veterans speaking from the beaches, towns and cemeteries of Normandy. In fact, the recent 70th anniversary probably brought something very special to an end, for although there will be other commemorations and special days which will help keep the 1944 landings within the scope of public recollection, none will be quite like the most recent example. In 30 years' time, remember, there will be no veterans alive to take part in the centenary anniversary.
Thus this period signals the beginning of the end of the pre-War and War-time generations, with their old-time memories and different outlooks.
Some decades ago I recall a debate opening up in the columns of our newspaper on how many more years there should be a service of remembrance for the victims of the R101 airship crash, and I think the general feeling arrived at was that 60 years was probably long enough. D-Day anniversaries have already out-lived that, demonstrating among other things how average lifespans have lengthened and how one batch of generations is coming to an end while another is already in the business of taking over.
This, I believe, is what is happening. The pre- and War-time generations are slowly disappearing and new generations will henceforth see the War represented by TV programmes, films, or books full of black and white images, rather than the presence of folk who actually took part.
This generational change-over is also contributing to a gear change in political opinion. Think of the old boys on the beaches. They welcomed allies, and they all took part in a common cause. And allies certainly rallied to the cause - from France, Norway, Belgium, Poland, Czechoslovakia, from Holland and Hungary, the USSR and the Balkans; and from India, South Africa, Canada, New Zealand, Australia. And from America, and a host of other countries.
Indeed, during the last War the UK was awash with foreigners, and as far as I can remember, the UK was happy to see them, was grateful for their sacrifices, and made them feel at home. How long did this state of affairs last? Well, the welcome mat was probably beginning to be pulled away by the late 1950s, and step by step, grumble by grumble, it has been slipping away ever since.
Now the newer generations - bright and shiny, loaded with tablets (both kinds) and lattes, comfort zones and cars, and with a strident knowledge of their rights - want fewer foreigners over here (even though they themselves want to retain the right to travel and even live over there, if they choose to do so), and rather than co-operation, seem to be seeking greater isolation.
To this particular member of one of the pre-War generations, still with a bit more slipping away left to do, this seems not just a shame but also a sleepwalk into a more threadbare and difficult period. In future, we will still need our allies and we will need co-operation, just as my generation and one or two of its predecessors needed a League of Nations, then a United Nations, then a NATO, and then a European Community.
But the old order passeth, and we shall see. We shall see.

Tuesday 1 July 2014

D-DAY SECRETS

A few years ago we were guests at a wedding and reception at Bylaugh Hall, near East Dereham, an occasion which also afforded an opportunity to stroll around the adjoining countryside. Not having visited the location before it came as a surprise to see the amount of World War Two paraphenalia still there, rotting gently in the sunshine. There were military buildings and trenches, and amid the trees the ragged skeletons of dozens of old Nissen huts and assorted constructions which, in their prime, must have been places of great activity.
I was left with two impressions: (a) that a lot of people were stationed there during the War, and (b) the place must have been tightly guarded and protected. Beyond that, its 1940s history was unknown to me. When I spoke to one of the staff about it at the time of the wedding, she said proudly, 'They do say General Eisenhower came here during the War.' Really? It was that important a place? Yes, it was. In fact, Bylaugh Hall was hugely important, particularly for its contribution to the D-Day landings effort.  
In 1943 Basil Embry, the Acting Air Vice-Marshal, was transferred to the newly formed Second Tactical Air Force, with its Group HQ at Bylaugh, and given the job of carrying out air operations related to Operation Overlord. Together with Group Senior Air Staff Officer David Atcherley they planned precision attacks in enemy territory and even flew together on a number of occasions. Then in January, 1944 (until December, 1945) Bylaugh Hall was handed over to No. 100 Bomber Support Group (motto: Coufound and Destroy).
It was now a very hush-hush place indeed, and the importance of 100 Group can be judged in the way it 'acquired' a network of local airfields and bases, including West Raynham, Great Massingham, Foulsham, North Creake, Swannington, Sculthorpe, Little Snoring, Oulton and Swanton Morley. Bylaugh was also connected to Bomber Command HQ and to 80 Wing, various British and American squadrons, and even Bletchley Park.
So what did they do? The Group's main duties were radio countermeasures, the investigation of enemy radar and radio equipment, and the jamming or interruption of enemy wireless, radar, navigational and control systems using, among other things, large amounts of Window - metallic-backed paper strips.
Flying many aircraft types including the Halifax, Fortress, Liberator, Stirling, Mosquito, Beaufighter and Wellington, they also used Mandrel jammers, Carpet transmitters to jam night-fighter radars, Tinsel and Jostle to jam radio systems, and Pipeback transmitters to confuse interception radars. In fact, from December, 1943, through to the end of WW2, aircraft from 100 Group flew 16,740 sorties, their efforts saving many lives.
Communications aircraft were mainly based at Swanton Morley, a few miles from Bylaugh, but it is said that a few small light aircraft actually operated from a tiny airstrip in Bylaugh Park, close to the hall.
Of course, the Group did not escape without losses. For example, two Fortresses were lost, one at Oulton and another at Foulsham; several Halifax bombers crashed, at Foulsham, Ryburgh and North Creake; a Wellington plunged into a field at Wood Dalling; and in 1944 alone some 25 Mosquitos were wrecked or damaged at places as diverse as Great Dunham, Swannington, Clenchwarton and Syderstone.
Because of its vital and significant contribution to the War effort, and to the D-Day landings, it is thus a very great pity Bylaugh Hall did not even receive a mention during the various programmes and ceremonies which marked the 70th anniversary of Overlord.