Norfolk has been my precious planet home for eight decades  - plus a few thought-provoking months since our general election, the 22nd “ “judgement day”  so far in my lifetime.

Okay, a mere blink of a rheumy eye in the great scheme of things. However, alien forces inflicting so much environmental and social damage on one of the solar system’s more blessed plots must not pass unnoticed.

To give this a drop of local perspective, let me recall the wise words of Great-Grandad Horry Horkey in 1945 as he made a half of mild last all evening in the snug of Ye Olde Gathered Inn; “If each before his doorstep sweeps, the village will be clean”.

Localism at its most effective. Collective responsibility to the fore. Rebuilding and safeguarding  family and community strengths. Taking pride in where you live. Dewin’ diffrunt and resisting massive change, especially when it blatantly puts profits ahead of people.

A fair while after that homely little sermon, my native county is being forced to admit those old values are being swept away on a tidal wave of excessive development buoyed by a potent mixture of naivety and greed. Too many residents, old and new, simply believe the “build for prosperity” prophets with hard hats and cold hearts to match.

It’s no longer a case of sizing up city, town and village outskirts  to prompt cries of “tatty round the edges!”.

Norfolk, besieged by powerful field eaters encouraged by a ridiculously compliant planning system and obliging landowners and farmers, now has to accept it is much more a raucous chorus of “hideously overblown!”.

Ribbon development has been gnawing away at vital character and space for most of the time I’ve been mardling and writing about Norfolk since leaving school in 1962.A visit to any of our towns now underlines a growing impression that sprawl is readily accepted as inevitable.

Places like Martham, Mattishall, Mulbarton and Mundesley may still call themselves villages but betray many symptoms of towns losing track of once-distinctive shape and identity. They have put on too much weight too quickly. We who remember trimmer figures shake our heads in deep disappointment.

It’s currently a case of so many accepting “there’s a building bullet out there with our name on it”, from Cringleford to Caister, Larling to Loddon,  West Winch to Woodton, and countless others quivering in fear of being hauled into a frenzy dressed up by politicians and speculators as a vitally- needed campaign to fire a  broken economy and meet colossal demand for new homes.

Swept away.    

One of the most provocative examples of bloated ambitions way beyond genuine local provision  is still unfolding in the seaside village of Caister, where I played cricket for many a season as dark development clouds gathered over deep mid-wicket. Now the old fishing haunt  straggles in far too many directions for comfort.

Another massive extension is set to unfold on agricultural land beyond the parish’s “barrier” bypass. Originally dubbed “Magnolia Gardens” and hailed as “a natural extension”, it has been sort of downgraded to “Mulberry Park” .

 Just another brand of poetic licence to go with years of getting away with highly dubious interpretations  of selling labels like “affordable”, “sustainable” and “desirable”.

Deck them out with artists’ impressions of idyllic scenes full of trees, flowers, pram-pushing mothers, generous play areas and ne’er a sign of litter or revving cars. And there we have Paradies Pastures.

In the light of this trend for taking linguistic liberties  to give all kinds of development more instant appeal, it may be worth starting a campaign to redefine old friends “Countryside” and “Rural”. They’ve both put on several extra layers of  meaning in places where traditions have been trampled over by radical alterations.

The mid-Norfolk of my youth saw virtually every family clinging to close connections with the land, some of them sinking deep into the county’s past. Few of those roots remain in a world where the prairie and lone ranger in a cab have taken over from the meadow and a posse of country thoroughbreds.

The farmer’s status in the community has diminished alongside dependence on him or her  for employment and shelter. Mechanisation has torn down history’s hedgerows. Meanwhile, advertising agencies pour our rural goodness, rustic freshness and Mummerzet magic until it slops over the top of all those new green wellies.

“Escape to the Country” may carry far more clout than it should for a television programme chipped out of estate agents’ dreams. But it feeds a comforting illusion of a green and pleasant land ready to embrace anyone who needs a refreshing change.

Just be ready for the big sobering question on arrival: “Which planet are you on, then?”