I use an occasional cosying up to the past as a means of better understanding the present and weighing up likely prospects for the future.

It happened the other evening when I recalled a dear old friend sending a poignant little message to the heart of my reputation as a fair-minded if rather entrenched sort of chap.

He wrote: “I have just completed 50 years as a resident Norfolk probationer. Can I now have my Norfolk passport, please?”. I was flattered to be asked but had to confess such a prize was not in my gift.

A full session of the Norfolk Passport Applications Committee was due to sit at a secret log-cabin destination somewhere close to Thetford Chase on a date to be fixed in late November.

It is believed this official ritual continues to this day in the name of harmony and hope.

My chum’s credentials as a useful and honorary citizen for half-a-century should have been strong enough to see him safely into the hallowed fold. I’ve known a few others get there in half the time, particularly  during an era when newcomers came close to being appointed bosom pals after discerning locals agreed to “summer ‘an winter ‘em first” before swinging the gate open.

Good-natured exchanges on this subject have punctuated my working and social life since I sought permission from village elders to leave rural pastures and find out if the streets of Thetford were paved with gold.

In fact, they were lined with newcomers from London , the sort of discovery bound to set me up for any seismic sociological shocks to come along the local media highway.

People still sidle up and apologise for not being lucky enough to be born in Norfolk or slipping through the back door via marriage or other subtle ploys.

Like bribing border guards, deliberately getting lost around Wolterton, Quarles or Mautby or taking holy orders and volunteering to look after 16 country parishes, as long as bike was provided.

As an ice-breaker for 25 years of leading Press Gang entertainers in local temples of culture, I requested at the outset a show of hands by genuine natives bred and born thereabouts.

They could then step out as interpreters and missionaries for rest of the evening.

It helped put a fast-changing scene in perspective and engendered a new kind of togetherness before the bar reopened at half-time. Strangers had turned into friends although most still had to buy their own drinks.

Perhaps such efforts in the name of genuine integration have a fair way to go but it  seems we still do far better than some.

Outstanding Fenland chronicler Edward Storey  moved from his spiritual flatlands to  the foot of ancient hills in Wales. I remember he sent me a delightful little book with the mildly inflammatory title of You’re Not From Round Here, Are You?

It was an A to Z of Proper People and People From Off by Roger Kite, a former university and college teacher of philosophy .

It examined essential differences between Proper People, who had lived in the Welsh Marches for generations, and incomers affectionately labelled People From Off.

Mr Kite flew in the face of most perceived wisdom connected with the search for togetherness by suggesting someone from other side of the world or just the next village must be treated exactly the same.

“It would seem that distance has nothing to do with offness. Despite any superficial similarities , People From Off are different. You are normal, they are not”.

Clearly, the Welsh Marches bear little resemblance to the Norfolk Amblings where I have observed  a heartening brand of fresh tolerance in recent years. “Furriners” is often reserved now for folk from another county – especially Essex. Mr Kite charged on with his alphabet of antagonisms. Some may relish D  is for Doing things.

“A common complaint from Proper People is that they simply don’t know how to do things.

"Now, clearly there are lots of things they do know to do, such as managing offshore investments or knowing which golf club to use. So what are Proper People getting at ?

"They mean your typical Person From Off is of no use to them at all. He has no idea how to build a fence, trim a hedge, deliver a calf, work a sheepdog, worm a horse, hang a gate or do anything else remotely useful to a Proper Person.

“So, grim though it is, the question has to be asked .. just what are People From Off for?”

My old friend Edward Storey was actively involved in much-appreciated missionary work in a hamlet scattered about lanes at the bottom of a hill in Powys.

Perhaps Mr Kite and like-minded colleagues should book a charabanc to Norfolk to sample another  real taste of peaceful co-existence.

That’s if they can get past passport control.