The Wash

In 1961 it’s for a weekend away On a grey winter Friday. Out from London, We drive north on The A10 to the Wash. Beyond Ely it’s flat and bleak. It’s an impression we seek Of a region we’ve not seen Where at Christmas the Queen Is at Sandringham near the Wash. But all we see on either side Are drainage canals and rushes that hide Miles of flat fens, and more again, Lashed by wind, swept by rain. It is not attractive, the Wash. Now the sun’s set And it’s cold and wet. So we seek and find an inn Next’ the Ouse in King’s Lynn. We’ll overnight near the Wash. Inside the inn we sit and dine Beside the hearth where the brasses shine. Then we spend the night Both warm and tight. In the morn we leave the Wash. To-night from a shelf I snap Down the ‘one-inch’ map, Numbered “124 King’s Lynn”. It oozes warm memories of an inn Where 45 years ago we were in love near the Wash.