Ooop North 2016

Thursday 15.9.16

Ohhhh, matchstalk men and matchstalk cats and dogs. He painted kids on the corner of the street with the sparking clogs. Yes, we’re off on a week’s trip oop North and I’ve got this on repeat play in the car for our perilous and worrying journey into the unknown. Having seen pictures of the North on TV and in magazines I’m pretty sure I know what to expect but you never know do you?

Anyway, so as not to look out of place, I’ve decided to dress in my Gilbert O’Sullivan outfit of flat cap, grey ill-fitting short-sleeved shirt with curly collar ends, horizontal-striped tie that only comes down as far as the second button on my shirt, grey waistcoat buttoned up crooked and short grey trousers with braces and matching long grey socks. My clogs are in the suitcase so let’s go!

We have a long drive ahead of us. Tonbridge to Harrogate, but with a bit of luck Brian and Michael will keep us in good spirits until we get there.

Fifteen minutes in and I’ve just about had enough of bloody Brian and Michael. Why I thought it was a good idea I’ll never know.

We’re spending two nights in Harrogate and arrived around 2.30 pm. We’re booked into a four star Best Western hotel just on the outskirts of the town. As we were registering, the receptionist said, “I see you’re down for a complimentary evening meal and a bottle of wine. Would you like that tonight or tomorrow?”

This was news to us. Pauline hadn’t a clue why but as we’d been traveling all day she looked at me and immediately said, “Tonight would be nice. How about 7pm?”

The room was fine with a view over The Stray, a 200 acre area of parkland.

Then I suddenly noticed on the table in the room, two bottles of wine. One had a label around the neck with a price on it and a note telling us that if this bottle was drank it would be charged as room service when we left. The other bottle had no such label or instructions on it at all. This was strange. Why was it there? Maybe this was the complimentary bottle of wine the receptionist mentioned earlier. We’d assumed we’d be getting it with dinner but maybe it was this one in the room. Who knows?

Anyway, I stopped thinking about the wine, difficult I know, and we unpacked (well Pauline did) and we decided to have a stroll around the town to get our bearings. Pauline asked the receptionist for the quickest way into Harrogate and she told us to go out of the back of the hotel, through the car park and turn left.

Good advice as it turned out. We were in the centre of town within 10 minutes or so and what a surprise!

Where were the scruffy, grimy-faced urchins joyfully dashing hither and thither in their rags and bare feet? I was beginning to feel slightly out of place in my outfit and my clogs, which I’d put on back at the hotel, were killing me.

It turns out that Harrogate, a spa town, is designer city. There are more smart streets full of exclusive shops than you’d come across in London’s Bond Street. It just oozed money. I thought the North was a struggling poor house of under-privileged people. Not in Harrogate that’s for sure. There were trendy bars and restaurants, a clean, well looked after town centre and hanging baskets. Don’t mention hanging baskets. They were everywhere and not just any old hanging baskets. These were industrial sized hanging baskets. Each one held more plants than the whole of my garden.

With impressive architecture, a Turkish Baths, Odeon Cinema, Theatre, Art Gallery, hanging baskets and Betty’s Café, what more could you ask for?

It was like Tunbridge Wells on drugs.

Although we were eating at 7 pm, Pauline felt peckish and with all the cafes and snack bars available for our delectation she decided to have a McDonald’s.

Time was passing and we’d exhausted ourselves walking straight past all the designer boutiques and were aimlessly looking for the Valley Gardens, an attraction Pauline particularly wanted to see. These gardens were in central Harrogate but tucked away at the far end of the town. The walk was downhill from the centre and past Betty’s Café which actually had queues outside. Queues for a café? Come on. What can be so special about Betty’s? We never did find out as I hate queuing for anything, even for Betty.

The weather was fine, it was a late summer evening and the stroll around the gardens was very pleasant. But soon it was time to head back to the hotel and from our location down at the far end of town we could see the large green expanse of The Stray in the distance and a road leading from the Valley Gardens towards it. Our hotel was facing The Stray so Pauline suggested we take this route rather than walk back through the town the way we’d come.

After 10 minutes we were approaching the outskirts of The Stray. After a further 10 minutes we were still approaching the outskirts of The Stray. 30 minutes into the walk back and we had The Stray on our right but no sign yet of our hotel. Pauline was absolutely sure we would arrive at the hotel soon but I wasn’t so sure. How come it was taking so long to get back when it was such a reasonably quick walk to get there? We carried on walking. I was getting hungry and tired and still no sign of the bloody hotel. I kept saying, “It can’t be up here, we’ve walked too far. It must be on a different road facing The Stray.” My flat cap was slipping and sliding all over the place and my clogs were making my feet bleed. I’d just about given up when all of a sudden there it was. Pauline, who knew where she was going all along, said, “You should always trust my judgement.” and of course I always should.

It was time for our dinner. Not any old dinner. It was our surprise complimentary dinner with wine. The hotel restaurant was quite small and as we were shown to a table I noticed a few people eating but the majority were just sitting and appeared to be waiting. A surly waitress came up almost immediately and said, “For the complimentary meal you can have anything on the menu up to a value of £19 each after which you have to pay for the extra.”

This seemed OK, Pauline chose something that was just under and I chose something that was just over so the whole meal would only cost us a couple of quid anyway. The waitress then said, “Would you like any drinks?” Pauline said, “We’ve been told we have a complimentary bottle of wine.” The waitress hurried away to check, came back and said, “Yes you do. Red or white?”

Now while this was going on my mind went back to that extra bottle of wine in our room. Was that the real complimentary bottle or was this restaurant bottle the real one? Are they giving us two complimentary bottles? It’s unlikely, but more to the point, if they are will they realise?

So there we were, at the table, drinking our complimentary wine and waiting for our complimentary meal. We’d ordered at seven and there was no sign of our starter at 7.15. There was still no sign of it by 7.30 and the few other people in the restaurant appeared to be in the same situation. 7.45 rolled along and still no sign of any food for us even though some other people had been served. There was also no sign of any waiting staff either. Then suddenly we saw our surly waitress, called her over and Pauline said, “We’re still waiting here. Is there a problem? We’ve been in here since 7 o’clock!”

The waitress scurried away and quickly came back with the comment, “The chef says it will be ready soon.”

Well how about that then? It will be ready soon. We hadn’t ordered a six course banquet had we? We hadn’t ordered spit roasted boar followed by grilled beaver tails followed by whale meat followed by whole roasted peacock followed by roasted swan followed by spiced fruitcake and a boar’s head garnished with bay and rosemary as a table centre piece had we?

And five minutes later our food arrived. It was now 8 pm, our wine was finished and the surly waitress came up and had the nerve to ask if we wanted any more drinks.

Sod off surly waitress and that goes for the chef too. Eat here again? What do you think? 

Friday 16.9.16

We woke to another mild and sunny day. The bottle of wine was still on the table. The hotel is full of old doddery people who get in your way wherever you go. It’s like pensioner’s day in B & Q so I felt quite at home really.

Breakfast was the usual wait to be shown to a table, order tea or coffee and then go up to the buffet and help yourself thing. Last night’s dinner fiasco was still in my mind but this morning everything seemed to be running quite smoothly.

Breakfast done, we walked into town to visit The Royal Pump Room Museum. On the way out a lady at the counter pointed to a bottle and said, “Would you like to smell the spa mineral water?” I declined as I knew that most spa water smelt and tasted like shit but Pauline had a sniff more to keep the lady happy than anything.

But guess what? They can’t offer any of it for sale or even let people taste it anymore because of an EU directive. How about that? Water that has been deemed beneficial to the health of the nation for centuries has been summarily dismissed by the bloody EU as being not fit for public consumption. So that’s another reason for leaving the EU. Then we’ll all be able to drink as much shitty spa water as we like and convince ourselves it’s doing us good while controlling the urge to retch it all up at the same time. I can’t wait.

Then and for no particular reason we decided to get a bus to Ripon and blimey, what a bus. It was more like a luxury coach. Free wi-fi, USB sockets, airline-style luxury seats, an ongoing destination display and on-board announcements. I hadn’t expected this. I thought we’d be travelling around in 19^th century hand carts pulled along by grimy urchins on their days off from going up chimneys. But no, The North appears to be awash with money

Ripon is a very attractive cathedral city and it seemed churlish to have come all this way and not visit the cathedral…so we did. As we approached nearer to the building it suddenly got busier. People seemed to be everywhere. Not unusual you may say given that this must be quite a tourist attraction but hang on. As the throng thickened I noticed that almost everyone was dressed in their smartest dark clothes. The men seemed to be wearing suits a size too big and had daft haircuts, lots of heavy gold jewellery and various body piercings while the women appeared to be wearing clothes two sizes too small, had daft haircuts, even dafter hats, lots of heavy gold jewellery and various body piercings.

At first I thought we’d stumbled upon a Mafia funeral but soon changed my mind and was sure we’d gate-crashed a gypsy funeral. Not something you’d want to be involved in I think you’ll agree. It turned out that we’d arrived just at the conclusion of a funeral for a very well-known female publican and not the consecration of Ripon’s Mafioso Don as I first thought.

We pushed our way through the mourners, I kept my hand on my wallet, and entered the cathedral which by then was reasonably empty apart from people like us and started to creep about as noiselessly as we could. I always creep about noiselessly in churches and cathedrals in case I frighten the other people who are creeping about noiselessly. I don’t know why. Just call me Mr. Considerate. Inside there was an art exhibition being held all around the perimeter which seemed rather incongruous really given that most people wouldn’t naturally choose a visit to a cathedral if they wanted to look at a lot of bloody paintings would they?

There was a sign pointing down some very narrow steps which said ‘To the Anglo-Saxon Crypt’. This is the only surviving part of the original church built in 672 AD apparently, so we crept into the crypt and then crept out again. (Yes, we did really). During my noiseless creepings I silently looked at various bits of old stone left lying around on the floor until I noticed a board upon which was written ‘We Can Offer  a One to One Prayer Consultation If Required’. I decided to ignore it. I didn’t want to waste anybody’s time.

Then it was time for a leisurely cream tea and back to the bus station. On the way we passed a ‘specialist’ off-licence and a bottle of rum in the window caught my interest. The bottle had been artificially aged to look piratey and had the word grog on the label. It seemed an ideal souvenir so we went in and I asked how much it was. “I be interested in tha’ bottle o’ grog in the window me ‘eartie,” I said, “’Ow many doubloons be you a-sellin’ it for?  I be lookin’ for somethin’ to keep me warm at night since tha’ cabin boy o’ mine ‘as forsaken me for the crows nest.”

The young man behind the counter blinked and stared. “Um, it’s £85 sir,” he said.

“85 pounds?” I roared, “You be jokin’. 85 pounds? Me treasure chest not be worth tha’ much. You’m not be a-sellin’ many o’ those methinks me boyo.” And we left.

Arriving back at the bus station we tried to get a bus to Knaresborough which was a bit further on from Ripon but there were no routes so we decided to bus it back to Harrogate and get one there. Back at Harrogate bus station we saw a bus waiting for Knaresborough. The driver waved us away as she was just cashing up and in the process of leaving the bus. We waited. A bus then pulled in with Knaresborough on the front and we queued to get on. Meanwhile that first Knaresborough bus had been taken over by another driver and he suddenly manoeuvred the bus out of its existing parking bay and drove it into another one right next to the bus we were queuing for.

For some reason, most of the people in our queue moved across and formed a queue for this bus instead.

So we followed.

Then, for some other unknown reason, most of the people in the queue we’d just joined, moved back to the Knaresborough bus we’d just been queuing at and formed another queue at that one again.

So we followed.

At last the driver of our bus deigned to open his door and let us all on and while we were all comfortably sitting on the bus, the other Knaresborough bus that we’d queued for but then didn’t, suddenly fired up its engine and left. It didn’t have many passengers as most of them, including us, were now left twiddling our thumbs waiting for our bloody Knaresborough bus to go.

Knaresborough is another very picturesque market town with cobbled paths and stone steps leading down to the riverside where many cafes and touristy things were situated, most of which were shut by the time we got there. It was quite a steep descent and we met a man coming up who said, “It’s easier going down.” It’s funny how some people feel the need to talk to strangers and state the bleeding obvious isn’t it? I wasn’t looking forward to the climb back up at all. I was out of breath going down but I needn’t have worried, we found a far more gently sloping incline on the way back and no steps.  

Starting to get hungry, we got the bus back to Harrogate and started walking around looking for somewhere to eat. It was still quite early, about 6.30 pm and we’d noticed lots of places were doing what they called ‘Early Bird Menus’, a set meal at a reasonable price. In the end we plumped for an Italian restaurant which was friendly, noisy and very efficient.

One of the many waiters came up after our second course to take our sweet order. He was quite elderly and I suspect he could have been the owner as he was smartly dressed and seemed to know and chat to most people in the restaurant. He asked if everything was all right and I immediately shook his hand which surprised him as he was still holding his pen in his hand when I did. “Very nice,” I said and took his pen out of his hand and put it in my pocket. This seemed to amuse him greatly and he said, “I see you ‘ave done that before.” He wasn’t laughing when I refused to give him his pen back though. Anyway, an enjoyable meal, good atmosphere and I would recommend it if ever you’re in Harrogate. Only thing is I can’t remember the name of the place.

We easily spent more than the price of our ‘Early Bird’ set menu but of course, that was the deal wasn’t it? Get the punters in early and take it from there. No complaints whatsoever. It was a great meal.

Saturday 17.9.16

We’re up for a relatively early breakfast as we’re leaving Harrogate today and driving on for an overnight stay at Scarborough. As we approached the dining room we were confronted by a queue of people waiting to be taken through to a table. There were lots of people waiting but no member of staff standing at the entrance to deal with us all. As well as the three or four couples in front of us, while we waited, more and more people were arriving and backing up behind us. We stood there and waited…and waited…and waited. Ten minutes went by and the mumbling and grumbling of the guests was gradually getting louder.

There’s gonna be a fight!

People in the queue actually started to talk to each other. I know, unheard of eh? British people talking to perfect strangers in a shared crisis? What’s the world coming to?  A few of the guests had been in for dinner the night we had our disastrous meal and were comparing notes but nobody went as far as to seek out a member of staff to complain to. We all just stood patiently in our queue complaining amongst ourselves. Until all of a sudden a waiter appeared, asked the people at the head of the queue for their name, checked his list and hurried them through to one of the few tables cleared and prepared for breakfast.

There was no apology or explanation for the delays and I could see that even being seated was no guarantee that everything was running smoothly again as there seemed to be more tables that needed clearing than available ones. Then it was our turn and leaving behind us a queue that had taken over the complete reception area, we were shown to a table but before we could say anything the waiter scurried off.

Pauline said, “You go up and get something to eat and I’ll sit here and give our coffee or tea order.” The help yourself buffet was in a further part of the room unseen from our table but as soon as I got there I could see there was a problem. Now there were more queues of people waiting to serve themselves and most of the trays of food were empty. So I tagged on the end of this queue and waited…and waited…and waited.

Eventually a man arrived to replenish the food and the queue started to slowly move. As I got close to the front I noticed the stack of clean plates was almost non-existent and as I reached my turn the woman in front of me took the last bloody one. Bloody hell. Now I was standing in front of the fried eggs, tomatoes, sausages, beans and mushrooms with nothing to put them on. The queue was building up behind me and I didn’t know what to do. Do I stand here like an idiot and hope a waiter mysteriously appears and in doing so, keep my place at the head of the queue or do I leave the queue altogether to go and find a bloody waiter  and risk coming back and losing my place?

There didn’t appear to be any waiting staff around at all. Not that they had to do much apart from bring a coffee or tea order to the table so I decided I’d have to go and find someone. Then, as I turned to leave the queue, a waiter suddenly rushed by, panic in his eyes, and I collared him. He looked at the plates that weren’t there, nodded and continued rushing by to who knows where.

I finally got back to our table with some breakfast, it had taken fifteen minutes at the buffet, with Pauline sitting there fuming. She was still waiting for someone to take the tea or coffee order. She saw a waitress literally running through the room and shouted, “This is ridiculous. Can someone please take our coffee order?” and that was that. We finished our breakfast, another meal fiasco at a four star Best Western hotel and couldn’t wait to leave. Let’s get the hell out of here.

And what happened to that extra bottle of wine in our room? What do you think? It left the room along with us, never to return again in a million years. 

The route to Scarborough took us north to the outskirts of York and then east to the coastal town. The traffic was horrendous and it took twice as long to get there as we’d hoped. Arriving around 1 pm we found the B & B and started to look for somewhere to park. All the roads were covered in double yellow lines apart from spaces designated as resident permit parking and all these seemed to be full. We drove around aimlessly until in the distance we could see our B & B again and a small huddle of women standing on the pavement. We stopped and parked behind a row of vehicles right outside the B & B and I got out. Immediately I was hit by a cold, gale-force wind which blew my hat off. It didn’t really, I wasn’t wearing one but it would have done if I was.

Hoping to make myself heard above the roar of the wind, I shouted at one of the women, “Are you going?” She said something completely unintelligible to me, partly due to the wind noise but mainly due to her Northern accent so I nodded thoughtfully, hoping she wouldn’t say anything else. Then, all of a sudden, two young women who were standing next to her suddenly sprang into life, got in their car and drove off leaving a space directly in front of our B &B. This looked promising so in between running after my hat, which I would have done if I’d been wearing one, I shouted at the top of my voice to the woman who’d confused me before, “Are you going as well?”

All I managed to get this time was, “…weeeeee yourgizzgozgagz nnoocumonn wweeellgahhkgahhkgahhk…oop there…”

It was almost like she was choking and I was just about to give her the kiss of life when Pauline looked at me sternly and shook her head.

Nodding thoughtfully again, I smiled, ignored her and motioned to Pauline to ease our car up into the vacant space. No sooner had she turned the engine on there was this roar and rattle in the air and a camper van came hurtling down the road towards us. It screeched to a halt parallel to the empty space and Pauline and very slowly reversed into it.

“Oh you’re not going then,” I said to the miserable woman who just stood there looking miserable. Her husband got out, slammed the van door, he didn’t say a word and they both walked off up the street. “So nice to meet you both. Have a nice day,” I shouted after them but of course they didn’t hear me over the noise of Hurricane Scarborough. Good job really I suppose because although camper van man looked elderly he seemed to me to be the unpredictable surly type who’d think nothing of reaching for his kitchen knife at the slightest verbal provocation and I didn’t want to be the subject of the Scarborough Herald’s morning headline ‘Man dies in road rage incident after challenging elderly man out of control on drink and drugs’.

But here’s the happy ending. Because the two women who’d vacated the space in the first place had left enough room between their car and the one in front (enough room to park half a car if you had one), it meant that camper van man had ample space to park and left just enough space behind him for our car to park before the yellow lines started. It was tight. There was about an inch between our back tyre and the start of the yellow lines.

Now Pauline is a bit of a stickler for correct parking and gets very concerned about it. She makes sure she’s parked within the spaces in public car parks and if the tyres are touching any of the boundary lines she’ll manoeuvre until they aren’t. So to be almost touching the double yellow lines was slightly worrying to her. “It’ll only take an officious warden to decide we’ve not parked legally and we’ve had it,” she said.

Battling against the wind I managed to unload our case and we got blown into the small hallway of the B & B before my hat blew off again, I know, I know, if I had one etc. and the owner gave us a resident’s parking permit for the car. While she was scrabbling about picking up all the papers and tourist brochures that Hurricane Scarborough had blown on the floor we asked where our room was. She pointed to a very narrow staircase and said, “It’s up on the second floor. It hasn’t got an en-suite bathroom but your bathroom is next door on the landing and you do have sole access to it with this key.”   I have to say we did know this when we booked but we’d booked anyway.

The staircase was just wide enough for one person, let alone one person trying to manhandle a heavy case at the same time. So huffing and puffing, bumping and clattering my way up to the second floor (it felt like three), we found our room.

Alarm bells. Alarm bells.

Described as a double room, it was just fractionally bigger than the bed. In order for both of us to get into the room, the first person through the door had to shuffle around the bed to the opposite end of the room so the second person had room to get in. If we wanted to change ends it was easier to clamber across the bed than try and squeeze past each other. We had to put our case on the miniature dressing table in order to give ourselves an extra tiny piece of space. With a sea view of the North Bay we could appreciate the weather outside more fully. There were large breakers crashing onto the beach below and plenty of hats flying through the air along with a few cats and dogs. We could have done without Hurricane Scarborough blowing through the ill fitted window though.

Before leaving the room for the delights of Scarborough I decided to check out the bathroom. Having squeezed back out through our bedroom door I stood on the landing, opened the bathroom door and walked straight inside the shower cubicle. It was lucky I did as I couldn’t shut the door behind me without doing this. I sat on the toilet with my legs and feet in the shower and my head craning forward to avoid the shelf on the wall behind me and wondered how the hell the owners had got all this past the local council’s inspections.

I stood up, forgot the shelf was there, hit it with my shoulder and just managed to catch the spare toilet roll and the air freshener before they both fell down and into the toilet bowl. With my trousers round my ankles I temporarily lost balance and crashed into the shower cubicle, the force of which dislodged the shower head sending it crashing to the floor.

I couldn’t bend down to reach my trousers, there was no room, so I had to bend my knees and lower myself gently to the ground until I reached grabbing distance of them. I turned around as best I could to face the toilet and pushed the flush lever. A small amount of water trickled into the bowl. I flushed again with the same result. Oh this was ridiculous. I gave it a good minute before trying again. This time a torrent of water splashed into the bowl but had no affect whatsoever in flushing away the contents. Bloody hell. I can’t stay in here doing this all day. I decided on one more try. Another waterfall of water came out but still didn’t achieve anything. Oh, it’ll have to stay there until we check out tomorrow was all I could think and stepping back into the shower, I reached forward, opened the bathroom door and squeezed back out onto the landing.

I gently opened the door to our room so as not to kill Pauline when I pushed it open and said, “I can’t get the bloody toilet to flush.”

“Oh you’re not doing it right, I had no trouble with it,” she said.

“Well I’ve tried everything I can,” I said, “a short sharp flush, a long pressure flush, one short, sharp and one long flush, three short flushes. I even tried using the shower spray down the bowl but nothing’s working.” While I was saying all this Pauline went out and into the toilet. I heard her flush it and she immediately came back in. “Nothing wrong with it at all,” she said, “by the way what were you doing in there? It sounded like you were demolishing the room from in here.”

“Oh never mind, never mind,” I said as I tried to put my shoes on in the two foot square of space in the corner of the room, “let’s get out of here.”    

We’re only here for one night, thank God.

It was a shortish walk from the B & B to the ruins of Scarborough Castle which towered on a hill above us so donning our sou’westers, bright yellow oilskins and waders we started to explore Scarborough. By now it was the afternoon and as we rounded a corner near the castle, a woman with red hair, dressed in a scruffy black top and trousers and carrying shopping bags and an umbrella suddenly passed us. I thought she was an old dosser but Pauline suddenly shouted at her, “Oh, you’re the lady off the telly! I loved your Immortal Egypt series on the BBC.” Professor Joann Fletcher, for it was she, thanked Pauline and hurried on before this loony woman could say any more to her. Pauline said later that the professor seemed to be wearing the same black clothes and carrying the same umbrella as she did in the TV series so my initial impression of her wasn’t far from the truth if you ask me.

As we reached the castle we just happened to see a parking warden on his rounds and Pauline took the opportunity to bend his ear about legal parking and tyres that were an inch from yellow lines. She seemed relieved by his answers.

We didn’t bother to pay the usual exorbitant admission fee to look at a load of old ruins so carried on walking down a steep pathway to sea level and continued on until we reached Scarborough’s South Bay. This was obviously where all the seaside action was. A promenade around the bay covered, as far as the eye could see, with gaudy signs and lights, tacky amusements, fast food joints and even tackier souvenir shops. No different from any other tacky seaside resort really. Think Blackpool on drugs.

We walked the length of the strip until we came to the Scarborough Spa. This was a lovely old building offering conference, exhibition, entertainment and banqueting facilities. There seemed to be a large café area so we went inside and ordered a pot of tea. (I don’t know how you’re standing the excitement of all this). Outside was a large pavilion area with a bandstand and various chairs and tables and it was all surrounded by high glass panels. Although it was roofless and open to the elements, it wasn’t raining and as the glass panels were doing a grand job of deflecting Hurricane Scarborough we decided to take our tea outside and join the only other couple out there.

It wasn’t until I’d sat down that I realised I hadn’t been given a cup. I had the pot of tea but nothing else. Do they take you literally oop ‘ere in Yorkshire when you ask for a pot of tea? Do you have to also ask for a cup to drink it out of? These local customs are going to take a bit of getting used to if you ask me. The other thing I’d noticed over the past few days was that none of the natives ever asked for a pot of tea. They always asked for a mog. I cottoned on in the end after I realised that you get more tea in a mog than you did in a bloody teapot.

Idly leafing through my free guide to Scarborough I was disappointed to see that we’d just missed the hilarious Billy Pearce with an all new version of his laughter show which had just ended its three times a week run between May and September.

Anyway enough of this high living, pots of tea and all, it was time to start heading back. We walked through the town and passed the Grand Hotel, a massive, magnificently ornate building with echoes of a bygone age. I suggested we went in for a look around and as we passed through the huge double door entrance we came face to face with a lovely old wide, sweeping staircase. It was quite stunning but completely spoilt by the sight of scores of adults and screeching kids sitting at tables, piled high with pint glasses and empty crisp packets, positioned all around it. It was happy hour apparently and non-residents were warmly welcomed, not by us I might add.

It was still bloody windy and chilly as we made our way back towards the North Bay where our B & B was so we got a bus. The North Bay had none of the tacky touristy bedlam of the South Bay. It was somewhat desolate, had the air of run down charm but was a popular surfing venue and even on this overcast Hurricane Scarborough type of day we saw plenty of strange people in wet suits happily falling over in the ice cold water of the North Sea. We stood and watched the huge waves crashing into the sea wall and spilling over the top covering the road until it was getting too cold for Pauline who decided to get back to the B & B for some warmer clothes.

We walked back and up to the B & B. Pauline went in but I decided to stay outside. I couldn’t face those bloody stairs again and besides I had a few bad twinges in my back as a result of that first climb up with our suitcase.

It was time to eat so we made our way back into town again. This time we were on the lookout for somewhere that could conceivably be regarded as a restaurant but could we find one? We trudged round pedestrian precincts but all we passed was fast food places and fish and chip takeaways. Then on the distant horizon we spotted a Wetherspoons and in the absence of anything else we went in.

I quite like Wetherspoons for what they are, decent value and reasonable food and beer prices but the establishments can vary a bit. This one didn’t have the sophisticated clientele and atmosphere that I always enjoy in the Tonbridge branch. I missed the pasty faced bloke who stands outside smoking and drinking my taxes away while he chats to another bloke who sits on a mobility scooter, pint in hand until it’s time for another one and then gets off his scooter to walk in and walk out again with another pint.

The pub was busy and the only table we could find was just next to the toilets. Pauline had her back to them but throughout our meal I had a nice view of the men coming out always in the final stages of doing up their flies. Needless to say my jumbo sausage got more and more unappetising.

Sunday 18.9.16

This morning at breakfast the woman owner was excitedly telling us that it was her 15^th wedding anniversary and she was going out later to celebrate by having a Chinese meal at a local industrial estate near York. She certainly knew how to have a good time didn’t she? But why travel all that way? Your guess is as good as mine. She could have gone to Wetherspoons couldn’t she?
  

Our Scarborough breakfast over, it was time to move on to Whitby for four nights. Carrying our suitcase down the narrow flight of stairs was not quite as bad as carrying it up but I think I still managed to scrape off half the wallpaper from the walls and aggravated my back even more.

The drive to Whitby was reasonably short and we arrived at the hotel around 11 am. This was far too early to check in, we were told 1 pm, and as all the roads were either double yellow lines or resident’s permit parking we were a bit stuck so Pauline went into the hotel and the man gave us a parking permit which enabled us to park right outside.

The hotel was described as five star and situated in a very attractive Royal Crescent at West Cliff with excellent views across ‘Crescent Gardens’ and out to the North Sea. As we had a couple of hours before we could check in we decided to take a stroll into the town. It was a lovely warm sunny day and the route into town took us down quite a lot of tricky steps with us ending up by the harbour. And the place was heaving with holiday makers. Our walk along the front took us past hordes of people who, without exception, were all eating fish and chips out of cardboard boxes. Well maybe one or two weren’t but I’m not exaggerating too much when I say it was fish and chip City.

Fish and chip restaurants, fish and chip cafes, fish and chip takeaways and fish and chip pubs were everywhere and each one had its own claim to fame. We passed “The Winner of Best Fish and Chips 2015”, then “Our Fish and Chips Certificate of Excellence” followed by “Best Fish and Chips Batter in Whitby”, then it was “The Winner of Best Fish and Chips 2009” (not sure how bad their fish and chips were from 2010 onwards though).

I was hoping to see one advertising “Best Fish and Chips Here Until You Get To The Next Best Fish and Chips Place Just Along The Road On The Right But They Don’t Make Their Batter As Good As Ours So Don’t Bother Going In, It’s Not Worth It”.

But I didn’t.

The harbour itself was picturesque and very pretty and at one end there was a small cluster of old fashioned fairground rides belting out Tony Bennett songs on the speakers. We walked across the harbour bridge to the market area with narrow cobbled streets and small shops then back again to where the bus and railway station were. Here you could pick up The North Yorkshire Moors Steam Railway and be taken on an 18 mile rail trip across the moors from Whitby to Pickering. We bought our tickets for the next day but decided against getting a return, it seemed overly expensive, instead we thought we’d get the bus back.

Then it was time for a quick cream tea which wasn’t worth it and a stroll back to the hotel to check in. By now it was around 3 pm and our host Andi took us into the breakfast room to complete the formalities. Now remember I said this was a 5 star hotel? It didn’t have a lift, didn’t have a resident’s bar and didn’t provide any meals other than breakfast. So what could it be? Yes, it was a B & B, but not any old B& B. It really was five star accommodation but I couldn’t think of it as a hotel. It seemed to me to be just a B & B with extra large rooms and more luxurious facilities.

Andi was a pleasant bloke, even though he spelt his name wrong, who took great pride in explaining how he and his wife ran the place. She did the breakfasts while he did everything else. This wasn’t as one-sided as it might appear because his wife actually ran a timber business from her office somewhere in the building. Andi pointed to a window table and told us this would be our table throughout our stay and then began to explain how we could help ourselves at any time of the day or night to whatever might be laid out on his breakfast bar and use the coffee machine whenever we felt like it. He also showed us a fridge which contained yoghurts and cold drinks and told us to help ourselves. He insisted on carrying our case up to our room, pausing just outside the door to tell us he was just back from Coventry as his mother had died the night before. Bloody hell Andi, we didn’t really want to know that thanks.

  

Our room was huge with a four-poster bed and we had a marvellous view across to the North Sea. Andi pointed out the decanter on the dressing table and told us it contained sloe gin in case we fancied a drink during our stay.

He also explained that the hotel was shutting down for a few days as they were leaving on Thursday, our final day, to go to a wedding in Cornwall. As he’d refused bookings apart from ours it meant that we’d be the only ones staying here. I immediately perked up at this piece of good news and had a glass of sloe gin to celebrate.

It was soon time to go out for something to eat. Wandering into town again it was still noticeably packed with holidaymakers walking around scoffing cardboard boxes full of fish and chips. The pubs, cafes and restaurants were so busy there were queues outside two of the biggest fish and chip emporiums we’d passed. Oh this is ridiculous, eating places everywhere and not a place to eat. We crossed the harbour bridge to find it slightly less busy and plumped for a pub called The Dolphin Hotel. This place offered a more varied menu but once inside we had trouble finding a table and guess what? We ended up sitting by the toilets again.

A decent meal though. I had sea bass and Pauline had Whitby scampi which apart from sounding like a rapper’s stage name was apparently very good. A few large glasses of wine and it was back to the hotel/B & B for a few more followed by some sloe gin which wasn’t living up to its name at all. It was going down fast.

Monday 20.9.16

Today we’re going to Pickering. We’re picking up the steam train from Whitby station at 10 a.m. and travelling across the North Yorkshire moors on the privately run line.

But first breakfast. It was our first morning and Andi the Spelling Error was being very friendly and chatty but not in an overbearing way and seemed genuinely pleased to have us there. What a great actor he would have made. And the breakfast menu was indeed five star. The choice was enormous, a la carte and Andi was very proud of it.

We arrived at the station to find people queuing on the platform waiting for the arrival of the train. It terminated at Whitby before returning to Pickering and there was the usual mix of families with children, OAPs, hikers with rucksacks and us. I felt that I didn’t belong to any of these categories but of course I did. As we strolled along the platform trying to decide which carriage to get into we passed a uniformed man who was shouting out something about all passengers for Pickering, get in the first six carriages. This always sends me into a minor panic. Even getting trains from Charing Cross to Tonbridge where they say Tonbridge – first four carriages, gives me a sense of unease. Have I counted the right number of carriages? Where will I end up if I’ve got it wrong? So to be presented with this problem while travelling 24 miles from Whitby to Pickering across desolate Yorkshire moors with wolves, wild cats and Dracula abroad didn’t exactly fill me with ease. Once on board though, I relaxed a bit after Pauline told me not to be stupid.

The trip took us through magnificent countryside calling at Grosmont, Goathland which became Hogsmeade Station in the first Harry Potter film and featured as Aidensfield in the ITV programme Heartbeat, Newtondale Halt, Levisham and finally Pickering. It was slightly disheartening to see so many people concentrating so intensely on their mobile phones and not on what was passing them by through the windows. People can’t seem to travel anywhere these days and just look out of the window. They’re missing an awful lot.

Pickering is another very attractive market town but once we’d wandered around its small shops, cafes, numerous cobbled streets and arrived back where we started there didn’t seem much else to do except leave Pickering to its tourist visitors and head home. We’d already decided to make the trip back to Whitby by bus but the problem was; where was the bus stop? Pauline asked the lady in the railway ticket office who directed us up the road somewhere but after a while we were getting nowhere so Pauline asked a man who looked like a local. He told us he thought it was further out of the town by a roundabout but didn’t seem too sure (a bit like me when asked for directions in Tonbridge) so we carried on walking until we did indeed come to a roundabout. And there it was. A bus stop for one bus and that one bus was going to Whitby.

We stood at the stop accompanied by a man and a woman who had a dog and a child’s push chair with them. I suddenly noticed the push chair was empty and there was no sign of a small child anywhere so I nudged Pauline. I was about to ask her whether I should tell this couple their child had disappeared when the man started to talk to us. Now this is something I dread. You’re out minding your own business when some person you’ve never seen before starts up a conversation of which you have absolutely no interest in whatsoever. It’s lucky I had Pauline with me to respond to his inane comments while I suddenly found the bus timetable on the other side of the shelter the most riveting read I could imagine.

“You getting this bus?” he said.

As it was the bus stop for just the one bus this was inanity of the highest order.

“I expect it’s the Whitby bus you want is it?” he said, “it’s due in about 10 minutes but quite often it’s late.” I groaned inwardly. Another ten minutes at least of this, I thought to myself while Pauline gamely tried to respond.

Then another woman joined us in the queue and immediately said to the man (thankfully not me), “Is this bus going to Whitby?”

Jesus Christ, it’s the only bus. It’s the only buggering bus that stops here you stupid woman.

And what does it say on the bus stop? It says Whitby. Come here while I rub your big fat nose on the shelter timetable that says to Whitby.

“I’ve just come from the hospital,” she said to the man, “I have to go once a week for my depression.”

By now I’d casually moved further away from the bus stop to prevent any danger of this woman suddenly making eye contact and stabbing me to death in front of Pauline.

“I only want to go one stop,” she said, “that’s where I live.”

Hang on a minute. You go to the bloody hospital every week. You only live just down the bloody road. You do the bloody journey regularly. Why the bloody hell are you asking us if this is the bloody Whitby bloody bus you bloody woman?

Just then the bus pulled up and the man was so interested in what the depressed woman was saying that he didn’t realise it was there. Once he did, he panicked and picked up his dog, put it in the push chair and just before he got on he said, “He’s so old now he can’t walk much.” I suddenly felt very sorry for the poor old dog.  He’d probably just aged prematurely out of boredom with his owners.

The bus journey back was even more enjoyable than the train journey. We were on the top deck which afforded us much more of a panoramic view of the surrounding countryside than the train did and passing through the same villages on the way back meant we had a glimpse of them that we never saw from the train.

Back at Whitby it was still early afternoon so what to do? I know, let’s get on another bus and go somewhere else. How about Sandsend? Nope, me neither, so it’s as good a reason to go there as any other eh?

Sandsend was a pretty desolate place with one pub/hotel, a restaurant, a few B & B places and a surprisingly large public car park. It was obviously a popular place to stay for people who wanted to get away from it all. The huge expanse of sandy beach was just that and the only concession to visitors was a small setup just by the beach hiring out water sport equipment. A couple of fisherman with their lines dangling from the high cliff face wall of the car park were the only real signs of life we saw and I wasn’t too sure about that really. We’d been told that you could walk along the beach from Whitby to Sandsend but judging from the view we had here it seemed a bit dodgy particularly if you weren’t aware of the tides.

So, half an hour later we were back at a bus stop waiting for the bus to Whitby. By now, I suppose it was late afternoon and we needed to eat. Whitby was just as busy and bustling as ever with the hordes of people walking along with their fish and chip boxes and for some reason, not sure why, I heard this voice inside me saying, fish and chips, fish and chips, fish and chips…

There were a couple of large fish and chip establishments with award winning signs on the harbour front, one of which seemed to have a perpetual queue outside it so we plumped for the other one. We got a table and ordered, deciding that fish and chips might be the best thing to ask for as that’s all they did. When the waiter came up I resisted the idea of asking him if they had any fish and chips in case he said sarcastically, oh I haven’t heard that one for at least 30 minutes, how droll. What a wit you are sir. We ordered some accompanying mushy peas but declined the offer of bread and butter which most of the other diners seemed to have in abundance. We did, however, decide on a couple of glasses of wine each which went really well with the fish and chips, surprisingly.

I noticed that the reason everybody had bread and butter with their meal was so that they could use it to make chip butties, that well-known Northern delicacy. Meal over we made our way back to our hotel, a few more glasses of wine and a small glass of sloe gin (small because there wasn’t much left) and then to bed.

All this excitement is wearing me out.

Tuesday 21.9.16

Big decision today. What to have for breakfast from the myriad of choices on Andi the Spelling Error’s extensive menu. He came bustling in as soon as we’d sat down at our table. How does he know we’re actually there? There’s no sign of him as we come down the stairs and he’s nowhere to be seen as we enter the room. We don’t even make any noise. The door’s already open and the floors are carpeted so how does he know?

“Ready to order?” he said, pen hovering over his small order pad.

I felt like saying not yet, give me an hour to read the menu and I’ll let you know but instead I said, “I think I’ll have the same as yesterday thanks.”

“Oh come on, I can’t remember what you had yesterday,” he said.

“Don’t you have the order sheet you wrote out from yesterday?” I said.

“No, don’t need them,” he said.

“You do now,” I said, “here’s an idea, why don’t you keep them for the duration of a guest’s stay and then you can impress them by offering to give them the same again if they want it.”

Andi the Spelling Error seemed genuinely taken with this and seemed quite pleased about it.

“No, don’t thank me,” I said, “just give me 5% of any future bookings.”

Today we’re meeting up with Pauline’s cousin Geoff and his wife Julie. They live in Leeds and are driving down to spend the day with us. They arrived about 10.30 am and Andi the Spelling Error very kindly gave them a parking permit so they could park outside the hotel. I don’t think any of us had any real plan for the day so Geoff started to drive while we all silently hoped that we’d find something to do or somewhere to go at some stage. It didn’t really matter though as we were all so busy chatting we couldn’t care less where we were.

Geoff drove us up to the ruins of Whitby abbey, it was such a climb we’d never bothered before, so we looked as we drove by but didn’t stop. Then it was along the coast past Sandsend and onto Staithes, a lovely pretty harbour and village where we spent, ooh, a good 15 minutes standing around by the harbour while Pauline and Julie found the toilets and after trying and failing to find something interesting to do we made our way back to the car.

Then it was off to Saltburn for coffee and scones. What a time to be alive eh?

Suddenly we were driving down a very steep winding road which led into Robin Hood’s Bay. As we approached the centre of the village the road got narrower and steeper until it became just one car wide. This coupled with the fact that each bend in the road made it impossible to see if anything was coming, didn’t make the journey stress free. Exciting, yes, but I thought Geoff’s car would be a wreck before we got there.

I think Geoff already was.

Rounding a bend we suddenly saw a fairly large white van in the road ahead and having just luckily passed a small parking layby we reversed, pulled over and waited for the van to come up the steep incline and pass us. We waited…and waited…and waited until Julie suddenly got out the car and wandered down the road and round the bend to see what was going on. She was gone for ages and I seriously thought that while walking down the steep road she’d lost control of her legs and the momentum of the incline had made her walk faster and faster until she couldn’t stop and had ended up falling into Robin Hood’s bay. Luckily she hadn’t, no thanks to Robin Hood who was nowhere to be seen, probably being merry somewhere with his men I suppose.

It turned out the van had got stuck rounding the bend down below and couldn’t get enough traction to restart up the hill so we had to wait while various people pushed and shoved it to get it going again.

We’d been driving around again for quite a while but it wasn’t until we arrived at Skinningrove that things began to get interesting. Geoff pulled in to the car park of the Cleveland Ironstone Museum and judging from its title I wasn’t holding out much hope for an exciting experience but how wrong I was. We went in and found ourselves in a small reception area with a girl behind a counter facing us and to our left was a lady standing by a couple of doors dressed quite normally apart from a red hard hat on her head. It was an interactive tour and while Pauline was paying I said to the lady, “I hope I get to wear a hat.” To which she replied, “You’re going to have to.” She told us that normally we would go through and watch a short video on the origins, decline and legacy of the Cleveland mines but as it was coming to an end it would be better if we skipped it and watched it later after the tour rather than before. So we stood around for a bit while she directed us to a big cardboard box in the corner and told us to take a hat.

The museum stands out as being located on the site of an actual ironstone mine and  between 1865 and 1958, over 500 men and boys were employed there, making this, Loftus Mine, the third largest mine in Cleveland. You can’t say these diaries aren’t educational can you?

The video finished and six people wandered out blinking in the sudden light and the guide woman told us to follow her through a door next to the video room. This was the gallery room and our guide took us through the mine’s history, its plans and artefacts which were scattered around the walls and display cabinets, most of which I’ve completely forgotten already. She then took us through another door deeper into the old mine buildings where we were shown examples of the original ventilation systems designed to quench fires and a look down the 60 foot ventilation shaft. It was at this point that she told us to follow her colleague Robin, who had mysteriously materialised behind our backs, and he would continue the tour.

Robin was a gruff speaking Northerner and he led us out into the open and then in through another door to a very small room with narrow benches along three sides facing a small TV on the wall. Robin stood in the middle of us and began to relate a story about some incident in the mine’s history. To add some audience involvement he was just about to mention the name of a man in the story when he suddenly looked at the middle-aged man sitting opposite me and said, “What’s your name?” The man’s eyes widened and he just stared straight ahead. “Come on, don’t be shy, what’s your name?” said Robin, this time quite impatiently and a little bit louder.

There was a deathly silence and the man suddenly said in a quiet voice, “Steven Harrison.” It was almost as if he’d been singled out in his school classroom for something or other. I was surprised he didn’t say, “Steven Harrison, sir.” He looked absolutely petrified and I started to smile. The smile got bigger and I knew that if I looked at anyone I’d start laughing so I lowered my head and tried to stop my shoulders from shaking and giving the game away. It didn’t help being so close to Steven Harrison either.

“Right, well Steven was the man and he had a wife,” continued Robin and then stopped again. He looked at the lady next to Steven and gruffly said, “What’s your name?” He didn’t have to ask twice. If anything she was more scared than Steven was and she murmured, “Elizabeth Harrison.”

Robin continued, “Trouble was his wife Elizabeth was a flirty bit and couldn’t be trusted…”

When Elizabeth heard this she suddenly whispered, “Ooh” and it started me giggling again. I was gone and all I could do was lower my head and gaze at the floor with my chin in my hands hoping that Robin wouldn’t suddenly stop and ask me what my name was. The story over, Robin pushed a switch and the room was suddenly plunged into total darkness while the TV on the wall flickered into life and told us the story of twelve year old Fred’s first day in the mine coping with being left alone in the pitch black with only the rats to keep him company. Just so you know, Fred survived his first day and even made friends with a rat.

The TV went off and Robin’s light on his hard hat came on so we could just about see our surroundings and on the floor by his feet we saw a small black rubber rat. The trouble was it didn’t frighten anyone, well maybe Elizabeth and Steven, but it was so obviously fake, it hardly seemed worth the effort. Robin picked it up and told us to follow him through yet another door where we entered a candlelit tunnel and he demonstrated how ironstone was drilled and blasted over a century ago. Demonstration over, he then asked for a volunteer to light a fuse to set off the blast. Getting no response, particularly from Elizabeth and Steven, he turned to the closest person to him and that was Geoff.

Geoff lit the match and touched the wadding that had been placed in the hole in the wall while we all watched in anticipation and suspense as the fuse promptly went out. Come on Geoff, what’s the matter? Not too difficult is it? Robin passed Geoff another light and this time the fuse took hold. While it was spluttering away Robin explained how it took about 20 to 30 seconds to burn down but it wasn’t an exact science so it was difficult to predict. As he was saying all this he motioned us all to follow him slowly up the tunnel to the exit. I think by now Elizabeth and Steven were wishing they hadn’t come.

We emerged into the small room again, still in complete darkness apart from Robin’s helmet light and waited…and waited. Elizabeth and Steven were huddled together, sitting on the floor in a corner with their hands over their ears mumbling the Lord’s Prayer while the rest of us were wondering what was going to happen. Robin suddenly decided to go back in and investigate and as soon as he left the room the sound of a great explosion rent the air. He came back in smiling as Elizabeth and Steven lay comatose at his feet. “That’s it,” he said, “thank you for coming,” and he led us out into the open air.

There was one final thing that nearly set me off again and that was his last question to us all. There was an old wagon with a supposedly covered corpse lying in the back and Robin said, “Over there’s the wagon they used to transport the dead and injured after one of the many accidents that occurred in the mine. How do we know that the man in the wagon is dead and not just injured?”

I looked around. Steven and Elizabeth were cowering behind Geoff and Julie and I decided to avoid eye contact with Robin in case he lost his temper with me.

“Come on,” he said, “come on, you must know.”

None of us had a bloody clue until he said, “It’s because his feet are pointing towards the back of the wagon and not the front.” I can’t guarantee he said that though, he might have said, “It’s because his feet are pointing towards the front of the wagon and not the back.”

Whichever way round it was…I still don’t understand it.

On the way out we passed a couple of people and Geoff started to talk to the man about rugby. It appeared they both supported the same team, something to do with the man wearing the same colours I think but my eyes glazed over after the first minute of their conversation so I don’t really know how they  recognised each other. Just one of those mysterious rugby coincidences I guess. I was more concerned with getting back to the car before Robin came out and asked me for my name and called me an idiot for not knowing the answer to his last question.

Then after a ride around the moors it was back near Robin Hood’s bay again for a good pub meal and a few drinks before the end of a very good day. 

Wednesday 22.9.16

Andi the Spelling Error came bustling in to breakfast as usual and stood, pen and notebook poised waiting for our order. Before I could say anything he said, “Would you like the same again?”, and pulling a piece of crumpled paper out of his pocket he said, “You know, what you had yesterday, fried egg, beans, mushrooms, toast, hash browns, tomatoes, kippers, yoghurt, corn flakes, coffee, orange juice and bacon in no particular order?

I looked him straight in the eye and said, “No.”

It’s our last full day before heading home tomorrow so what to do? The charms of Whitby had all but been exhausted and bus journeys had been taken and enjoyed. It was a beautiful day, sunny and warm so we strolled along Whitby front once more. The fish and chip brigade were as ever coasting along with their cardboard boxes and there seemed to be as many people with fish and chips as there were with dogs on leads, quite often with both. I tried to fit in by dragging a cardboard box on a piece of string along behind me but Pauline said don’t be stupid.

Due to the nice weather there were various boat trips being hawked along the harbour front advertising the chance to see porpoises and dolphins so we weighed up the different ones on offer. One of them was a four hour trip for viewing whale, dolphin, porpoise and any other sea creatures that might pop up but I didn’t fancy being out there for four hours and the £40 per head cost seemed a bit expensive so we plumped for a shorter trip that obviously didn’t go out as far as the other one so whale watching wasn’t part of the agenda. We booked and then had to kill time until the scheduled boat was due to leave.
  

Once outside the confines of the harbour the sea was suddenly very choppy and it wasn’t long before the captain cut the engines and we silently drifted while we concentrated on scanning the expanse of ocean. The captain then shouted and pointed out to sea while Pauline excitedly nudged me and said, “Look there’s one.”

“One what?” I said and as I turned to look I clearly saw absolutely nothing. And that was how it stayed for the whole time we were bobbing about. Half an hour of this and the captain said, “Sorry we didn’t see anything,” fired up the engines and we headed for the harbour entrance. Bloody hell.

Back on dry land Pauline decided she’d like to have Whitby crab for her evening meal. The trouble was that everywhere was so bloody busy during the day and in the evening it was difficult to know if the fresh crab would still be available. The only way to make sure she got it was to reserve it in advance for a later booking, so after wandering around from pub to pub to restaurant to restaurant we finally plumped for a traditional looking small pub with views over the harbour. It was also the most reasonably priced. We booked a table for later at 7 pm but then what to do now?

Get a bus somewhere of course. We decided to go to Saltburn again to see if it had changed much from the day before. It hadn’t. Strolled along the sea front, got the 50p cliff lift up to where the town was and joined a few people waiting for the bus back to Whitby. Whatever happened to the sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle eh?

The bus arrived and a man in the queue was letting all the ladies on the bus first while repeating to anyone within earshot, “Ladies first, ladies first, ladies first.” This was all very well for this loony but it meant that I had to wait until all the ladies had boarded too in case he suddenly had a go at me. It was just like being on the Titanic and waiting for the lifeboat while someone shouted “Women and children first.”

Back in Whitby we made our way to the pub and found ourselves being shown to a small table in a fairly gloomy and depressing bar area. I assume Pauline’s crab dinner was OK as she didn’t march up to the bar afterwards and demand her money back but when it came to pay they said their card machine wasn’t working but Pauline thought they were lying and just wanted the cash. It seemed that sort of place.

By the time we left it was getting dark so as a final farewell to Whitby we took a stroll down one of the two stone piers that jutted out to sea and which formed the harbour area. These piers were not there for entertaining the public, they were just piers, used by fishermen and little else. So there it was. A romantic stroll out to sea in the Whitby moonlight followed by a gentle walk home to our hotel and the end of our break.

And what of Oop North? I was pleasantly surprised by all of it. I even said to Pauline I could see myself living there if only there weren’t so many bloody fish and chip shops.