The lap lapping of the weedy Bure,/A whispering and watery Norfolk sound.

The long-ships drove up the Bure, and the horned men were there to rape and to burn,
Seeding their names, Rollesby and Billockby, Fleggburgh, Clippesby and Thurne – Poems from Oby, 1979

A grey church tower, a windmill, or the dark-brown sail of a wherry in the distance breaks the sense of utter loneliness, but the scene is wild enough to enchain the imagination of many (1884)

You either get Norfolk, with its wild roughness and uncultivated oddities, or you don’t. It’s not all soft and lovely. It doesn’t ask to be loved.