Wednesday, October 26, 2022

Whitby

What an interesting place... we travelled up on Saturday, getting spectacularly lost on the moors by accident, and slid into our accommodation late afternoon, giving us enough time to explore a bit before dinner.

On Sunday, it pelted down with rain. We had to give up and go back to get dry: the umbrella we bought blew inside out in nanoseconds. Monday wasn't bad at all: we watched as a group of men stood in the street, only one wearing a smart white shirt and a (rather dramatic) pink and red tie. The more casually dressed mates were taking the mickey out of the number of pens he had in his upper shirt pocket. It was a long-lasting ribbing which the smart chap seemed to take in his stride. I think we saw a seal, too. We drifted around the charity shops and the junk shops. It was tempting to buy things, but all too many of the antique shops had sections where there was N*zi memorabilia, or displays of g*llywogs. No! How can they do this? It all needs to be confiscated and burnt: there is nothing collectible about this stuff, it's revolting and retrogressive.

On the happier side, there's an amazing museum at the top of the hill and through a little park, full of all sorts of quirky treasures. The automata of the Whitby jet makers wasn't working, which I thought was rather funny considering the number of working communities in the UK who are currently on strike, or about to be. We sat at the children's table and drew with the crayons for a while (all the children were in the huge playground).

We were so busy. We went to an awful craft fair that had those sorts of things you make out of kits that are almost completely made already. We ate really great breakfasts and really great dinners. We ate ice cream and crisps. We were big babies. We stood where the tide splashes high, and we walked on both arms of the harbour. We went on a boat trip and we sat in cafés. We walked up the hill and down the hill and at rest time they watched awful Disney films, while I read a John Grisham book that was lying around from cover to cover, before continuing to read Sasha Swire's memoirs. There were thousands of dogs, often with owners who did not understand the concept of short leads when walking in crowds. We bobbled over cobbles, took photos of each other, squabbled and joked. The town was full of excited children scrapping with each other and being told off, elders negotiating impossible climbs very, very slowly, crap pre-hallowe'en decorations, and bonhomie. 

What a wonderful few days away from the fascistic machinations of the British government. Soon, fun will become illegal. It was good to get our fill before the inevitable happens.

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