Day 2 | Robin Hood's Bay + Whitby
An in-one-take (hence the slight hiccoughs) recording of my words!
Driving through the North York Moors, gasps escaping me often, of a mind-of-their-own appearance, a hill unravels over which we whoop, the coast unveiling itself to the left of us, look-tiny houses scattered below towards which we winded, the fishing village most charmingly unmasked in the bask-in-it, not-often-seen English sunshine.
Down the path we stepped, the familiar by-the-sea houses jogging memories of family-made, at-the-weekend trips to Lymington, little-town shops selling handmade wares, sweet treats, and for-the-tourist knick-knacks, topped off with (sun)shiny happy peoples' grinning, excited-to-be-there faces.
After a pause for breakfast - mouth around buttery, door-stop-wedge-sized toast accompanied by tea-leaves-y tea in the oh-so-quaint Tea, Toast and Post - and time spent people-outside-the-window watching, we make our way onto the beach, the bold-emerald-clad cliffs reflected in the mossy exteriors of the sandy-shore-hugging rocks. We plod along, matching pace as we take off towards the slate-grey decoration, the air thick with the giddy-ness of those enjoying their we're-off-to-the-seaside day, our search-through-the-rockpools anticipation buzzing out of ready-to-hunt-for fingertips. No bounty found we soon turned, tracing our path back up along the cobbles - meeting human-being, eating-icecream traffic - to our Erica(r), ready to travel further up the coast to Whitby.
A car park and Royal Crescent navigated, and a lady in red with a woofer for company wellys-and-boots clomped behind, we trod the wet sands of Whitby beach, dodging beach-games take-er part-ers, children charging for the waters, and more humans-ready-for-icecreams, queued along the van side. Bracing ourselves against the sudden rush of visitors-into-view, we took our time walking the pavements, and up along West Pier, stopping to take in the either-side (all around us) views: the Abbey, its ruins towering high-and-mighty from far above us on the hill whence it stood; new town, motioned-bodies enjoying the slight crash of white-foam-topped waves; pier go-ers, hands gripping tightly on wind-blown layers, forks dipped into all manners of right-from-that-sea fare; and seagulls, swooping and dipping for the hopefully-they'll-drop-some remains.
Darting one-behind-the-other through the cheerily-chirping holiday crowds (smells wafting, seagulls flying to attention), eyes caught by the colours and textures lining the streets with their beck-and-call encouraging, our bellies grumbled as we snaked by the white, keep-you-back railings (topped by flags flapping in the off-the-sea breeze), calling us to join the queue for grub inside the Quayside. The waiter followed, stairs up to the by-the-window booth, perusing menus for fresh-from-Whitby shore offerings in light-battered cod with curry-sauce-and-chips pairings, chowed down with mushy peas, a not-for-in-so-long first, fuelling at-the-seaside memory-jogging, and from-the-chippy reminiscing.
Swing bridge behind us (ran to at the insistence of the come-now-or-wait-a-while. ringing-for-us bell-summoning), into the old town we wandered, passing by brick facades decked-out in blues and greens and reds and creams, all the while eyes-wide-peeled on our search for the (199) up-to steps for the Abbey, turned around on often to witness the unfurling beneath us of the across-the-waters new(er) town, before settled into with a bench-sit, conversations had and chuckled through. A swift let's-pop-in-here trip to the Abbey's brewery made (its exterior admired from behind-the-walls distance), the back-on-cobbled-lands direction headed in chosen most randomly, cars parked alongside - boats moored, and fishermen-were-here left-behinds, on - the River Esk, continual companion on our way back to the jostle-for-pavement-space crowds.