This is the fourth episode of the Houseago Diaries, the recently unearthed unique historical record of one man’s struggle against bureaucracy and newts. It forms a background for, not to mention insights into, the articles originally published in the Eastern Daily Press, Norwich, around the turn of the century. Earlier episodes are archived only on this site.

December 25, 1996

Could not do idiotic quiz in local paper. Still, Dorothea seemed to like her present: six bottles of Norfolk punch. She has put them away somewhere. No plans to do anything much. Newts bound to be quiet over holiday period. Everyone is.

December 31, 1996

Happy New Year – not. Bastard newts have taken advantage of our religious observance and general lack of mobility to announce plans to drive supernewtway through hamlet occupied by rare Norfolk people. Apparently idea is “to make life easier for everyone”. Ha! Why do we want easier life? Anyway, have never heard of newt jams. Suspect they do not exist. Supernewtways quite different from bypasses and dual carriageways, which are good things, avoiding congestion and pollution. No-one wants newts to get anywhere quickly. Bad enough at present speeds.

Not sure where threatened hamlet is: newts rather vague. Since was unable to comment on newt evil, eccentric Ernest Woodfolk, of Association to Preserve Everything that Moves, said he would launch far-reaching campaign of protest. Woodfolk incapable of launching toy yacht. Must try and get out of this chair. Where Dorothea?

 January 1, 1997

Turns out Dorothea making idiotic new year resolutions, with help of Norfolk Punch. Resolved not to lie about her age. Absurd. Has lied about age so long, she doesn’t know how old she is. She also resolved not to take back seat in future. Haven’t noticed this in past. Myself resolved to wipe great crested newts off face of earth, and Wymondham. Also coypu, if not already extinct. Quietly confident.

January 6, 1997

Might have known newts would get in on act. Have resolved not to harass rare colony of Norfolk people – ie us. Say they want to be good neighbours. Do not believe it. Dorothea, in bid not to take back seat, released ridiculous or possibly satirical statement “welcoming newt initiative”. Why are newts not hibernating? Don’t newts hibernate? We should be told. Are cold-blooded, aren’t they?

January 13, 1997

Bizarre item in paper about Newt Gingrich, who seems to be foreigner. Who would call a child Newt? Might as well call it Brooklyn, or Zowie. Suspect newts are trying to cloud issue. Obvious red herring. Have decided to ignore it.

January 20, 1997

Newts clearly going mad. Have announced they will travel round world by balloon. Obvious publicity stunt, especially as they say it isn’t. They won’t go. Newts hopeless balloonists. On other hand, could contact poisonous foreign newts and import them. Need to keep eye on progress, if any. Where Dorothea? Have decided to subscribe to Rare View Mirror, journal devoted to recording strange sights. Newts bound to be in there eventually.

January 24, 1997

Suddenly realised newt ballooning was scheme to drop things on our heads in overflying blitzkrieg. Will they stop at nothing? Had to act fast. Put round rumour of UFO and wild cat alert in Fakenham area, and newts forced to land by public opinion, or Tornado, or both. Stupid journo asked me what newts could possibly drop on Norfolk people’s heads. Said: “Toads, probably.” Seemed to believe me. Added that large number of Norfolk people were allergic to toads. He took it down in shorthand. Refusal of newts to hibernate becoming annoying.

January 27, 1997

Journalists will believe anything. Toad quote appeared in paper.

Episode three of the recently unearthed Houseago Diaries, which chronicle the struggles of Norfolk hero Henry (Fred) “Shrimp” Houseago against an attempted takeover by great crested newts. Occasional reports of this struggle were published in the Eastern Daily Press, Norwich, between 1995 and 2006

Earlier episodes of the Diaries are archived on this site.

November 16, 1996

Not to be put off, have come back with fresh publicity coup, applying for protected status for colony of Norfolk people. Probably won’t get far, but satirically sound. In brilliant move (said Dorothea), pointed out that great crested newts in Suffolk had access to wartime bomb site, which could give them nuclear capacity. All Norfolk people suspicious of Suffolk. Combination of Suffolk, wartime, bombs and “aggressive” newts guaranteed to put me in best possible light. May be regarded as saviour of county. Will speak to vicar. Perhaps could stand for office of some kind. Would like to be mayor of something. Great crested newts could be blessing in disguise. Must not say so, obviously. They are evil threat to humanity. Probably Communist, or right-wing. Or both.

November 25, 1996

Feeling a bit strange after triumph of last week. Probably going down with something. Could newts be into biological warfare? Probably not, but must be careful. Must cut down on Real Ale, for instance, though more likely cheap Chardonnay which Dorothea brought home in burst of activity is to blame. Or something going round.

Got Ms Goodchild, 104, to issue statement as “deputy spokesperson” for Norfolk colony, saying influx of unusual birds into Norfolk, with accompanying twitchers, was newt masterplan. Probably not good idea, on reflection. Dorothea quoted as saying you could never tell how newts did things, which sounds like real politician. She must not get ideas above station. So told her off for suggesting nuclear story was smokescreen by newts – could have got much more mileage out of it. Birds not as frightening as nuclear device, on the whole. Nor twitchers. Just odd. No problem if you carry large stick.

December 2, 1996

Feel a bit better. Unexpected “help” from natterjack toads, who accuse expansionist great crested newts of giving wildlife bad name. Wildlife already has bad name. It is wild. Not sure about toads. Don’t know which way they’ll jump, though newts say they’re jumping to conclusions (very funny). What are they up to? Must ask Dorothea.

What shall I get Dorothea for Christmas? When you’re 104 you don’t want anything else. You want someone to take stuff away. Maybe will offer to take stuff away. (What stuff? Must be careful.)

December 9, 1996

Newt wrote letter to EDP, complaining that great crested newts threatened by Norfolk people, not vice versa. Bold move, but obviously incredible. No-one will take any notice. Norfolk people never threaten anyone. They do not move quickly enough. (Also Norwich City FC.)

December 16

Bought present for Dorothea, but cannot reveal what it is. She may read this. Quite excited because both to appear on television, explaining horror of newt expansion plans to veteran interviewer Jeremy Paxton, 89, of North Creake. Will suggest newts should be served with injunction and use several legal phrases which should impress viewers. May go for judicial review, or injunction. Will say res ipsa loquitur, in case lawyers are listening. Lawyers love that kind of thing. Would not want newts to get lawyer. Could blow whole thing wide open. Or not. Lawyers could avoid issue to get more money.

December 22, 1996

TV appearance cancelled to make time for extra darts. No point. Saw appalling nativity play at local church. Can only have been put on by consortium of newts. Left out all essential stuff: no angels with tinfoil halos, no cardboard animals, no plastic doll. Three wise men looked very much like toads to me. Well known that natterjack toads do not come from East and are not particularly wise. They just know which way to jump. In that respect they are very much like coypu, which I believe are slowly taking over our local government system. May have to tackle that issue one day, but mustn’t get sidetracked now. Have condemned newt play as “tasteless” on behalf of colony of Norfolk people.

“Tasteless” always good criticism: doesn’t mean anything, but you can’t reply to it without appearing to support tastelessness or having no taste of your own. Am feeling very much in Christmas spirit.

Here is the second episode of the Houseago Diaries – recently unearthed and presented exclusively here. They relate in astonishing detail the ongoing battle of Henry (Fred) “Shrimp” Houseago against great crested newts, who threaten to destroy the Norfolk way of life. More episodes will follow on a weekly basis.

October 10, 1996

According to conservationist Eileen Dagenstit, we in Wymondham are only remaining enclave of real Norfolk people. Find this hard to believe. Find conservationists hard to believe generally, like environmentalists. Probably same thing.

October 17, 1996

Quiet week, until read in EDP that Prime Minister John Major was right behind us and anti-newt. Since he also said he was proposing to privatise them, suspect he doesn’t really understand the problem, like most politicians (whatever the problem). Reporter said I was unavailable for comment, which is fair translation of what I actually said. Some things cannot be commented on. 

October 24, 1996

Astonished to see that great crested newts had hit back at suggestions they were harassing Norfolk people. Apparently they made pledge to preserve us and said: “We might even charge an entrance fee.” Did not know newts had sense of humour, but can’t believe they’re serious. Obviously no-one believes anyone who makes a pledge; so they really are threatening us with extinction. Pledge to fight to the last sand dune. They shall not pass. Dorothea agrees.

November 3, 1996

In pro-active mode, released news to press that newts were appearing on residents’ doorsteps and offering to cut down trees. Pointed out that many real Norfolk people were to be found in trees. This stretching truth a trifle, but in war against newts anything goes. No-one likes strangers – newts or not – appearing on doorstep, especially while television on. Suspicious. Could be religious, or selling windows, or both. Think I’ve got public opinion on my side. Dorothea critical, but she has integrity problem. Even persuaded gullible journo that newts had applied for planning permission. Public always panicked by idea of planning permission: they suspect planning committee will pass anything it can’t understand, which is nearly everything. So more anti-newt feeling generated. Good day’s work. Should be in paper tomorrow.

November 4, 1996

Was. Excellent. 

November 11, 1996

Another public relations coup. Managed to persuade EDP to print that great crested newts drank too much, and were ambitious. War going very well. 

November 12, 1996

May have overplayed my hand. Dorothea points out that people who drink too much are folk heroes, unless they kill someone. Everyone who appears in court for violence and says they drank too much gets sentence halved. Strange. Should also not have said no-one knew what newts would do next. Makes them sound exciting, unlike Norfolk people, who talk about doing different, but do the same. Except me, obviously.

For more than ten years over the turn of the century I wrote a commentary page in the Eastern Daily Press, published in Norwich. A feature of the page (some said the only good reason for its existence) were the regular reports on the activities of Norfolk hero Henry (Fred) “Shrimp” Houseago and his battle against a group of sinister great crested newts who were attempting to subvert the Norfolk way of life, among other things.

I am happy to report that I have recently unearthed the Houseago Diaries, covering a period of almost two years from October 1996. These give Mr Houseago’s own views on the events reported in the EDP, and I feel it is important, not to say vital, to give them publicity. I will therefore be serialising them here over the next few weeks and, possibly, months.

October 4, 1996

Could not sleep last night. Had series of bizarre dreams, none of which seemed to make any sense. Asked my fiancee Dorothea about them when I woke, but she didn’t make any sense either, which is not surprising as she is 104. At least, that is what she says. She has certainly been around a long time.

In my dream things were falling out of the sky, but not bombs. Seemed to be speed limit signs, except that they were all very low speeds, and you would think that in the future we would be able to go faster. Very odd. No-one saw them coming, because everyone was looking down, and they hit quite a few people on the head; there were pools of blood all over the place.

Then a place called Hingham, which is somewhere I have only passed through once or twice. Something which looked like a Scout Hut was being blown backwards and forwards, and there seemed to be a kind of wormhole effect, like you get on Star Trek. Suddenly this comet hurtled out of the sky and plunged into a black hole which seemed to be in the middle of a map of Norfolk.

Then got mixed up with this party of men who were hunting coypu, and we seemed to be lost and got tangled up with lots of discarded fishing tackle. Thought coypu were extinct. But most vivid scene of all was this great army of what appeared to be newts, marching towards me with weapons of all kinds. In fact were about to trample all over me when I woke up. Thought I’d better make a note in case it all fitted together later, like jigsaw.

Put it down to dodgy beef on bone from Jones the Butcher. He has his own supply. Do not trust Welshman who wants to live in Norfolk. Makes no sense. No mountains.

Decided to have quiet day. Was going quite well until happened on copy of yesterday’s Eastern Daily Press, delivered late by recalcitrant newspaper woman on scooter. Amazing item on page nine: “A consortium of great crested newts has put in a planning application to extend its ‘green swathe’ home just outside Wymondham. This plea is expected to be turned down, however, following objections by one of the few remaining small groups of Norfolk people, who say they have a right of way over the disputed land. Conservationists say that the existence of Norfolk people would be threatened by the newt expansion plans. Natterjack toad representatives are backing the newt application.”

Stunned, not to say flabbergasted. Am one of last remaining Norfolk people. Live just outside Wymondham. Great crested newts threatening my very existence. Toads beneath contempt. Everything begins to make sense. Well, some things. Am determined to resist on the beaches, etc. Blood, sweat and tears. I see it now. It’s all up to me. Have been chosen to stand alone against the newt onslaught. Will ask Dorothea to stand with me. Remote possibility. But will be hero anyway.

October 8, 1996

Have been thinking a lot about newts. Walked on green swathe. Saw no newts. Must be experts in camouflage. Dorothea less than enthusiastic about anti-newt crusade, but I insisted. She will come through in end. Like cavalry, only earlier.

October 9, 1996

Decided to be pro-active. Apparently this is good: read it on business page when looking for cartoon. Issued press release to defend Norfolk people against ruthless newts. Said: “There are only a few of us left. And we’ve forgotten almost all the Norfolk dialect we knew. Some people came over from London the other day, and they could understand everything we were saying. Those newts have got to be stopped, or we won’t survive.”

Pack of lies, naturally. People from London never come near Wymondham, because can’t pronounce it. And know Norfolk dialect very well – just never use it because Dorothea allergic. So she says. Still, first blow in war against vicious newts. No such thing as bad publicity. Well maybe item saying Houseago mad fool and should stay in bed at age of 97 might be bad publicity, but also libel if newts said it. Could collect large sums from newt coffers. (Do newts have coffers? Or large sums?)

To be continued

Strange thing, snow.

Not scientifically, of course: it’s quite easily explainable in terms of how it happens and where it comes from, if you stick to the realms of physics and chemistry.

But looked at in a different way, it’s totally mysterious.

We all know it’s unpredictable, and that meteorologists have difficulty knowing exactly how much, exactly where and for how long. But then so is rain.

What makes snow different is that it’s beautiful. A sprinkling of the white stuff sends us dashing for our cameras or reaching for our phones. We love the way it improves the landscape, making it softer and cleaner.

So what’s mysterious about that?

The fact that as well as being beautiful, it also makes life extremely difficult. Travelling becomes problematical. Snow is dangerous because it’s cold, and as well as freezing you, it can bury you.

We use up huge amounts of energy – our own and the national grid’s – combating its effects. Vehicles slide into each other; people break bones. Businesses lose money.

Logically, we should hate the stuff. So why do we find it beautiful? If we simply evolved from nothingness, we would expect to like what’s good for us – what makes it easier for us to survive. Moderate rainfall, sufficient warmth, enough food: a smooth ride, gradually improving.

But in fact we’re beings who have a capacity for wonder, particularly at things that are dangerous, risky and on the edge. On the edge of what? We don’t know, but something that we really want. Something we can’t control.

Poet Rainer Maria Rilke said that beauty is the edge of terror that we’re just able to bear. In other words, there is something out there that we couldn’t survive in our current state, but we desperately want it. Beauty is the nearest we can get.

Snow is like that. So are mountains, storm-tossed seas and killer deserts. Touch and see, but don’t get too close, or stay too long.

I’m struggling a bit. For years now, I’ve been responsible for writing an alternative carol service for St Augustine’s Church in Norwich. I don’t know quite how that happened, but I suspect it’s because if you volunteer to do something once in the Church of England, you’re pretty much landed with it till the end of time.

The idea is probably that you get to think about eternity quite a lot.

It’s a bit of a challenge, thinking up a new way of working songs, poetry, monologues and drama – not to mention carols and readings – into a period of about three quarters of an hour when most people have their minds on the Christmas lunch to follow.

I have also tried to work in a few topical and local references, with the result that when you go back and read the scripts (as I have recently been doing) some elements come over as rather mysterious. Which again, I suppose, is not a bad thing.

We have had the Nativity as reported on radio and in newspapers. We have had a talking sheep, and an angel on Mastermind. We have had health and safety calling the whole thing off. We have had incompetent soldiers, unwise men and … well, you get the idea. Our most recent vicar, now resident in Aspen, Colorado, always called it a Christmas play. I don’t know why. Perhaps because he used to be in advertising.

What, you may justifiably ask, is this alternative carol service an alternative to? I have been asked that before, and the answer is that it’s an alternative to not having one. I don’t know if that clarifies things.

Anyway this year, as I said, I’m struggling. What new approach can I try? Last year I went for radical ideas about what the first Christmas was really like, and I’m not sure that worked. Too much comfortable propaganda for the traditional tales. I have tried repeating excerpts of previous years; so I can’t really do that again. I need something really new.

Or do I? Maybe I’ll just go for a traditional carol service. A bit of singing and reading. That should confuse them. They’ll probably be thinking about the turkey anyway.

To previous generations, flight was a vision of freedom. We looked up longingly at the birds and saw them released from the chains of gravity, able to float like angels on the invisible breeze and get a whole new perspective on life.

This was what we wanted, wasn’t it? To be released?

So it’s ironic that when most of us fly nowadays – now the miracle has happened – we find ourselves much less free than when we walk around, tied to the ground.

Airports are prisons, with strict rules about where you can venture and what you can take with you. You are forced to wait in a cell-like area for much longer than is necessary, you may be searched, and your belongings are examined. Flights are always late taking off. It’s a nightmare.

And even when you get airborne, there is no experience of freedom. You are shut into a metal tube with not enough room for your legs or any other part of your body. There is a risk of blood clots, and a much higher risk of catching something from one of the other passengers, since the air you breathe is constantly recirculated, together with the germs and viruses. You can’t sleep.

You may catch a glimpse of the huge airy spaces outside, but more often than not, there is nothing to see. The whole experience has to be endured, rather than enjoyed. Freedom doesn’t enter into it.

This is all true for the average human being. For the more fragile among us, it is much worse.

Of course the more privileged – by which I mean the rich (and there seem to be a lot of them) – have a rather more benign experience, involving special lounges, beds, silver service and unlimited drinks.

While imprisoned in a departure lounge not long ago, waiting to board, I discovered just how many people were more privileged and shiny than me and who would therefore board first. It started with ruby and continued through platinum, sapphire, executive platinum, emerald, business and, eventually, first class. Then, at last, came groups one to four. I was in group four. I know my place.

But even for the exalted creatures who go before me, it’s still a long way from freedom, and not at all what our ancestors might have envisaged.

Should we abandon the whole idea and revert to roaming free on land and sea? Should we try paragliding or Autogiros? Perhaps a Cessna would be a step in the right direction.

Sadly, having stepped into the prison of commercial flights, it’s hard to step back. The time saved in reaching “desirable” destinations is a magnet to which we become firmly attached, and we accept the huge restrictions that it involves. I wish I never had to fly again, but I will.

In my dreams I tell myself it’s for the birds. But I’m locked into it. I have to get away.

Deep in the heart and soul of Norfolk are a handful of places that none but a tiny minority of travellers have heard of. Take Swacking Cuckoo, for instance. Or Mount Ephraim. Or Little London, near Corpusty…

If we still had parlours, it might make a challenging parlour game for Norfolkmen and Norfolkwomen to attempt to name a village or hamlet that could not be accurately located by the remaining company.

In the event of my becoming involved in such a raucous pastime, I might go for Oxnead.

It’s not too far from civilisation, and in recent times, a sign has even been installed on the approaches. But ask your average citizen from Norwich, only about ten miles away, where Oxnead is, and the stare you get in response may well be completely blank. Or they may head off for Oxborough, which is somewhere else again.

Times change. In the 16th and 17th century at least, Oxnead was well known as the main seat of the distinguished Paston family, from whom stemmed a unique collection of letters – most in the 15th century, when their main home was Paston Hall, on the coast, but also in the 17th century, when most were written by the 1st Earl of Yarmouth, Robert Paston.

Oxnead Hall today is a private house owned by the Aspinalls, who are interested in their Paston heritage and have a strong rapport with the Paston Heritage Society. So it was that they opened their gardens to more than 80 invited guests recently and allowed us to celebrate the society’s 21st birthday there, including a performance of poetry, prose and song.

It is easy to see why the Pastons valued the hall. In its rebuilt state (only one wing of the 17th century hall remains, and the relatively new, in-your-face front structure – built before the Aspinalls moved in – is said to be uninhabitable for structural reasons), it still presents an imposing spectacle, not least because of the extensive gardens descending towards the River Bure.

These can be seen quite well from the footpath on the other side of the river, or from the track running to the east of the hall. They can also be glimpsed from the grounds of the old church, not quite so imposing but containing interesting relics of the Pastons, including a bust of the much-loved Lady Katherine, who died in childbirth, and the tomb of Admiral Clement Paston, a nationally admired figure who carried out much of the 16th century rebuilding.

It is hardly surprising that the site is being advertised as a wedding venue for 2015: it is romantic and picturesque, with a church in the grounds. But you don’t have to ditch your current spouse and start again to enjoy the delights of Oxnead. A stroll around the hamlet, starting at Brampton, perhaps, provides a glimpse into both the past and the future.

Assuming you can find it, that is.

During our annual stay in Scotland – Aberdeenshire, the Dee and the Cairngorms – we noticed a new feature of the landscape: posters and banners bearing the words Yes or No. Something dramatic was clearly taking place.

Not being Scottish (although my wife was born in Glasgow), we felt this had little to do with us. Even if Scotland votes for independence, it is hardly likely to affect our regular journeys north. The natives are more than friendly to us, and will doubtless remain so, even if they become another country and do things differently.

We have not been able to avoid catching the odd soundbite from Alex Salmond, who strikes me as the kind of populist politician who will not let his opponents complete the answer to a question if half an answer suits him better. In this he has much in common with certain broadcasters who I instinctively distrust, but as I am English I cannot possibly comment on his arguments.

I was once harangued (and not many people can say this) when I said I couldn’t understand why Berwick on Tweed would want to be independent. Conversely, I come from Norfolk, which claims to “du different” and therefore might want to go it alone, with or without the drawbridge advocated by some of its inhabitants. So I have given UDI (a unilateral declaration of independence) some thought.

Should Scotland go it alone? And if I think not, how does that square with my instinct to get out of what I see as an undemocratic European Union?

My misgivings are straightforward. If you want to win a referendum, what do you do? Well, you could start by giving the vote to people you think will vote in your favour and take it away from those who probably won’t. For instance you could give it to 16- and 17-year olds, who are more likely to be rebellious, and take it away from Scots who are not resident in Scotland.

Oddly, this seems to be what has happened. But as I say, I am not Scottish. Who am I to complain?

What does worry me is that if the vote goes against independence, Mr Salmond will have created a very large minority who are angry and frustrated, and who may well be unhappy with those who voted against them. Being Scots, they are unlikely to resort to arms, but we cannot rule out the odd angry glance.