An old chum of similar vintage and disposition when it comes to radical change on our precious home patch, agreed to join me on a watered-down ”celebrity antiques road trip” along a familiar coastal route.

The main aim was to recognise  and register valuable little items  of reassurance that some elements of traditional Norfolk spirit can defy the grim twin tides of too much development and a spoiling surfeit of tourists between Sheringham and Blakeney.

It had to go deeper than a regular moan about ugly clutter around the edges of Shannockland and  little game of Spot the Local in Weybourne or anyone bearing the slightest resemblance to former prime minister, John Major.

He was in recent years  a proud part-time  resident of a village noted for  heavy through traffic, smart houses, a five-storey windmill built in 1850 and parish church flanked by impressive remains of an Augustinian priory.

We had to declare a strong interest in a regular haunt for mardle-and-munch sessions over our years of meaningful meandering as we reached  the Old Reading Room  Gallery  and Tea Room at Kelling.

Popular with “trippers and troshers” alike – as one of the cheerful serving team put it – the place excels in a rare example of cheerful co-existence between visiting  clipped tones and homely broad accents

Seascape charms tend to flatter to deceive soon after reaching the heart of Salthouse where pushy battalions of  hastily-parked  vehicles including an obligatory parade  of Chelsea Tractors far outnumber local residents and callers quietly taking the air.

We seek a drop of consolation in guessing how many  strangers can work out what “Samphire” means on notices outside homes opposite the beach.

I recall a rather puckish old salt with a sense of humour fashioned out of distaste  for the way his home parish was going upmarket almost convincing a holidaymaker it referred to  a model of an aeroplane very popular during the last war.

Moody marshes and scatty birds provide nature’s apology for  too much man-made congestion  on a narrow route in and out of Cley, once a thriving port and still harbouring a collection of impressive buildings demanding far more respect than packed pavements or an engine roar.

Second homes and holiday lets abound but the splendid parish church of St. Margaret looks over the attractive green and Glaven valley with an air of benevolence and belief that such a perfect setting deserves far more than uplifting memories of good old-fashioned community spirit.

Another former port with impressive large Gothic church of St. Nicholas keeping watch, Blakeney provides a bustling backcloth for final lap of our thoughtful jaunt along this part of the  holiday trail. 

That  old conundrum about too many people going to the same place at the same time tending to destroy many of those  virtues attracting them there in the first place  still begs an honest answer as we weigh up the good, the bad and the downright dastardly.

We’ve done our homework, however, and know there’s more to Blakeney than a constant rush of well-heeled weekenders who enjoy a spot of sailing , house prices inflated by holiday demand  and local jobs being casual, seasonal and low paid. 

A remarkable success story in the vexed arena of social housing has unfolded here as a  rare but valuable example of a fresh spirit of co-operation in one of the poshest parts of Norfolk. Blakeney Neighbourhood Housing Society has attracted both local people and incomers  as committee members and officers.

It began with the  pioneering spirit of Norah Clogstoun, who settled in the village in 1938 when her husband, a retired Army officer,  found work at the nearby Weybourne and Stiffkey camps.

She  was shocked by the poor condition of so many old folks’  cottages in Blakeney and failure of landlords to carry our  essential maintenance.  When a row of five went up for auction she bid successfully …  and then borrowed money to pay for them.

Norah presided at public meeting in May, 1946, as it was agreed to form a housing society with seven locals elected to a management committee. Without that society, Blakeney High Street might have been totally lost to the community amid rising demand for holiday homes.

Mrs Clogstoun died in 1963 knowing the society had sound finances and a secure future. Blakeney has benefited from generosity of those holiday home owners who appreciate a need to help safeguard s  local community. Some have bequested cottages to the society while others have sold to it for a nominal sum.

It’s  a stirring antidote to so many examples of cynicism, greed and overkill in the ever-expanding world of tourism. My old friend  proposed another refreshment break on our  way home to raise a glass in honour of The Gal Norah.