In the long ago days before truth became legend, there lived a West Norfolk boy called Tom Hickathrift. He was an unusually tall lad, strong enough to carry an oak tree. But Tom was lazy and if he could get out of housework, he would. His exasperated mother sent him to work for a King’s Lynn brewer, carting beer across the Fens. In those times the Marshland Fen was known as The Smeeth, which is true. And it belonged to an Ogre, which is also true. If you want it to be. The Ogre was bad tempered with shocking indigestion and the dreadful breath that comes from eating terrified travellers without chewing. Not surprisingly local folk avoided the flatlands and took the long way round.

But Tom couldn’t be bothered to walk further than necessary. So he set off into Ogre territory. The Ogre smelt the blood of an Englishman – classic Ogre behaviour. And Tom smelt the stench of the Ogre, lurching through the fog, dripping mud and weed. Tom was lazy but he wasn’t slow. Swiftly he overturned the cart, snapped the wheel axle to make a cudgel and with one mighty swing knocked the Ogre’s head clean off. Calmly reassembling the cart, Tom displayed the Ogre’s bloody horrible head on top of a barrel and strolled home to a hero’s welcome. Even his Mum was impressed. It’s said his grave is in the churchyard at Tilney All Saints. So, part fact, part fiction, part metaphor? Pure Norfolk.