Fen Weekend in North Norfolk

There is something magical and strange about Norfolk. One of the least populated parts of England, at the very eastern edge of our island, it specialises in grand halls, medieval churches, flat expanses of countryside cloaked in morning mists and vast majestic beaches. It was virtually untouched by the Industrial Revolution and does not possess anything so brash as a motorway. As such it attracts a very specific kind of individual: discreet, moneyed, outdoorsy and not a little eccentric.

The village of Little Walsingham is possibly one of Norfolk's strangest places. It was here, in 1061, that a widowed Saxon noblewoman called Richeldis de Faverches saw a vision of the Virgin Mary, who instructed her to build a replica of the house in Nazareth where the Angel Gabriel made his annunciation. A spring appeared at the spot of the apparition, and Richeldis went about her task by gathering materials and spending a whole night praying, at the end of which a simple wooden structure had miraculously materialised. Her son Geoffrey, a Crusader, went on to build a priory and Walsingham became known as the English Nazareth, attracting the world's pilgrims, including all the King Henrys from III to VIII, until the dissolution of the monasteries in 1538. In the early 20th century, rather confusingly, both the Anglican and Catholic churches saw fit to rebuild Shrines to our Lady, making Walsingham a doubly holy place. And as we drove to our holiday cottage, we passed a traveller encampment and saw groups of bare-footed penitents making their way along the old pilgrim path.

We were staying at a complex of converted barns in a tiny nearby hamlet called North Barsham. There is not a great deal of holiday accommodation in this part of Norfolk, and most of the rentable properties tend to be pokey, old-fashioned places, but our Barsham Barn had high ceilings, resin floors, plasma screens, a massive picture window over-looking a field with tubby little sheep, and swallows living under the eaves, which would spend the evenings shooting around the outside of the building.

Leaving pretty, medieval Walsingham, with its Christian bookshops and men in dog-collars, we drove to the coast and Cley next the Sea; a village of squat, red-roofed cottages, a windmill and an award-winning delicatessen, that was once, before the silting of the Glaven estuary, one of the most important ports in England. In summer the tiny road (originally built for horses to carry produce to and from the port) heaves with cars, but once parked, visitors can wander along the peaceful lokes – narrow, flint-walled passageways – behind the high street, buy smoked fish from the smokery and trundle along the boardwalks, past the marshes, to the stony beach. Here we sat by fishing boats, to eat smoked mackerel, and watched seals from nearby Blakeney Point bob by.

Wiveton, just inland from Cley, was once a major shipbuilding centre. Today it is more famous for Wiveton Hall, a Dutch-gabled 17th-century manor, the doorstep of which was once lapped by the sea, now only glimpsed as a thin line of blue in the distance. The Hall has a farm offering excellent pick-your-own possibilities, as well as a café serving up the farm's produce. It is a popular lunch spot, with lots of outside seating, where we ate figs and mascarpone in the intermittent shade of the swaying trees.

The following day we had a pilgrimage of our own to make. Holt is a busy little market town, significant for its Georgian architecture, and the home of my husband's favourite clothes shop, Old Town. True to its name, Old Town stocks only 1940s-style workwear, dun-coloured, high-waisted trousers held up by braces, waistcoats and overcoats, all in no-nonsense hard-wearing fabrics such as flannel and corduroy, made to order on vintage sewing machines. Such attention to detail is not cheap, and the cult brand is favoured by the wealthier Norfolkians. A friend, who we met for dinner that night at the Victoria pub in Holkham and whose family have owned a house in smart Burnham Overy Staithe for generations, explained that everyone he knows wears Old Town's Mr Darcy-style, voluminous white cotton shirts for sailing trips.

Holkham's beach is probably Norfolk's most famous natural attraction: four miles of white sand, backed by pine woods, dunes and saltings purple with sea lavender. On a sunny summer weekend it can be unbearably busy, but catch it on a warm weekday evening, as we did, and it is one of the most wonderful places in the world. We first walked through the quiet woods, stopping off in hides to scan the marshes for avocets and terns, then we dipped down on to the beach and walked along a shimmering, nacreous path of crushed shells as riders thundered past on their horses making fresh tracks in the sand.

As twilight descended and the moths emerged, we walked to the Victoria, just across the road from the beach car park. The interior, designed by the actress Naomi Watts' mother Miv, is decadent colonial with rich fabrics and Rajasthani furnishings, while the food is local. We ate crab salad with samphire, and halibut with pea shoots in a creamy broth. All around us the Norfolk locals, in their Old Town outfits, looked tanned, happy and not a little eccentric.

Where to stay

There are seven different Barsham Barns, sleeping from four to 14 people. The barns have been recently converted and have plasma-screen televisions, wood-burning stoves, underfloor heating, WiFi and neat gardens planted out with lavender (barshambarns.co.uk).

Where to eat

The Victoria at Holkham has two formal dining rooms offering locally sourced fish and meat, including lobster and sea bass. There are ten rooms, all individually designed. Prices start from £130 for midweek B&B based on two people sharing (victoriaatholkham.co.uk).