“You speak of this as the Wensum,” said Wynne; “I thought it was the Yare.”
“This river is the Wensum, but this smaller stream coming in on the right is the true Yare, and from this point the united river takes the name of the Yare. This spot is called Trowse Hythe, and half a mile up it, where there is a mill, was once a famous spot for smelts, where they were caught by large casting nets, used at night by torch-light, but the town sewage has effectually spoiled the smelting. The pool below the New Mills was also a place where the smelts were caught in large numbers, but it is not so good now.”
Presently we came to Thorpe, where a bend of the river has been cut off by two railway bridges, and a straight new cut made for the navigation. We took the old river, and Wynne was charmed with the view which then unfolded itself. The long curve of the river was lined on the outer bank by picturesque houses, with gardens leading to the water’s edge, while behind them rose a well-wooded bank. In the autumn of 1879 this reach was found to be swarming with pike, and it speedily swarmed with anglers, who had generally good sport until, apparently, all the pike were caught. At intervals since, there have been similar immigrations of pike to this reach when tides unusually high or salt drive the fish up from the lower reaches. At the lower end of the reach is a favourite resort on summer evenings, a waterside inn, known as Thorpe Gardens, where we pulled up. Here there are also boat-letting stations, where cruising yachts can be hired.
Just through the bridge, [29] we joined the main river again, and noticed several yachts moored against the bank, amongst which was ours.
Wynne stepped on board, curious to inspect a Norfolk yacht, and he freely commented on her enormous counter, short keel, great open well, and tall pole-mast. In a short time we stowed all our belongings, and set sail—mainsail, jib, and topsail—the spread of canvas rather startling Wynne, who had only been used to sea yachts. There was a light north-westerly wind, and we glided swiftly away before it. But ere we had sailed a couple of hundred yards, Wynne insisted on our stopping to sketch the White House, at Whitlingham, which, with the trees on the hill, the wood-shaded reach of river, and the huge brown sails of the wherries, formed a picture we might well wish to carry away. Wynne often stopped in this way, to the intense disgust of our man, who liked to make his passages quickly, and had no sympathy with artistic amusements.
The dyke leading out of the river by the White House is a regular harbour for pike, which is continually restocked from the river. It is private property, but just at the mouth of the dyke, in the navigable river, is a good spot. At least three hundred pike were taken here last winter by Norwich artisans.
“What graceful craft these wherries, as you call them, are!” remarked Wynne, as he rapidly sketched the high-peaked sail of one which was slowly beating to windward or “turning,” as the vernacular hath it, up the narrow river.
Very many of these wherries have been converted into sailing house boats or pleasure barges, and so constitute most admirable floating homes for those who like cruising with greater comfort than small yachts can give.