The year slips in to the period where the clouds begin to look painted on. Renaissance skies stretch across the soft hills of my current world. We’re leaving in the morning. Heading North to Whitby and then on to the Northumberland coast. Going back, but not to Seville as we’d originally discussed. Rachael wants an early start and is more keen in the morning than me. I feel groggy, the way you do after a night of excitement for your holiday. That broken sleep of knowing you have to get up, and actually wanting too. We drive first to a Park & Ride just outside York, an idea far superior to anyone’s idea of the best service station on the M1. We take the bus in to the city. We’re in luck, there’s a food market on. We walk up, then back, taking in the sights and more importantly the smells. Sometimes you can’t beat animal fat and onions. We each grab a Viking burger, wild boar and lingen berries, amongst other things. Delicious. I’ve been to York before, in fact most of the places we’re planning to visit on this trip I’ve been to before. A long time ago in an undocumented adventure with old mates Matt and Dave. I don’t really remember it, probably because I didn’t write it down. Rachael and I walk through the streets, taking in more markets and the Shambles. There’s a queue down the tiny street, overhanging itself. People are lining up for the York Ghosts Merchants who appear to sell little tiny ghosts. They’re the size of salt and pepper shakers but I get the impression their purpose is purely decorative. We don’t join the line. We head out to the old city walls and take in some more of the city. We have a look at the ridiculous, intricate carvings around the door of the Minster, which is somehow different to a Cathedral. After a decent break from the road, Rachael carries on, taking us out towards the coast. We cross the North Yorkshire Moors. This high and desolate place is new to me. “What’s that?” I ask, pointing to the the doom fortress on the horizon. Rachael informs me it’s the RAF’s ballistic missile detection radar. “Cool”, I think. The moors end and we hit a steep and sudden drop towards our destination. The ruins of Whitby Abbey sit proud on the final hill. The sea at last. Whitby smells like the seaside. Seaweed and lobster pots. Lashings of vinegar and fine table salt. The town houses are tall and crooked. We ascend in to the Moonshine Loft where we’re living now. There are a lot of hooks in the kitchen but no tea towel. The bedroom is home to a creepy corner of photos from the 50s and an oversized velvet rabbit. Other people’s idea of home is weird.

Rachael and I set out the next morning to explore Whitby. Ticking off the major landmarks; The Whalebone Arch, a Captain Cook statue, one of he quays. Whitby answers York’s Shambles with some of its own. Rachael challenges me to go in 3 different shops just to browse. The sort of thing I’d never do. We smash my target and I even find the first ugly magnet of the trip. I learn about Whitby Jet, in that it exists and comes from the coastline. A gemstone that is more wood than rock, and where we get out descriptive jet black from. Ancient fossilised monkey puzzle trees. I’m not sure what sets it apart from coal beyond it being used in jewellery instead of power plants. So many of the fisherman’s cottages are now holiday accommodation.  It is hard to know how to feel. If people lived here they’d need an industry to support them, but the industry is tourism and the tourists need places to stay. I’m not sure who will win that argument. We grab a bite to eat from the Cheeky Pig. The man in there seems to specialise in pork and stuffing sandwiches. We wolf them down watching kids catch crabs in the harbour. We came to Whitby to visit Grandma. Rachael’s,  rather than mine. We stop in for a cup of tea and get a second lunch. Grandma tells us what the news is. Her partner Sid gets his radio on for the football. We end up there for several hours. We finish off at the Abbey. Or outside the walls of it anyway. In the Whitby Brewery. I get the Gothic Stout which is both creamy and delicious. Rachael doesn’t pull her usual oh my god that’s disgusting face when she tries it so I know I’m on to something good. We sit and watch the light fade on the ruins.

The storm seemed to finally roll in off the moors overnight. Wind rattles at the windows, which seem to be sympathetic to its cause of getting inside. We engage in a sunrise mission down to the quays. We’re joined by the dawn patrol of photographers and dog walkers. The morning is calm, the sky is clear. The blazing ball of exploding hydrogen speeds over the horizon before settling in to a more sedate pace. We go find the best of things, a cafe open before 9am. Yorkshire accents bubble among the group already in the Whistling Kettle. It’s cash only but they let us order before Rachael runs off to find a cash machine. We get the full English with a mug of filter coffee to set us up for the day. Full of fried meat, mushrooms and bread we climb the 199 steps to the abbey ruins again. We pass through an open field, following a pheasant who seems to be leading us along the footpath on some noble quest. We’re early on the cliff tops, it’s quiet. Our first point of interest is Saltwick Bay holiday park. We descend from the cliffs on to the beach. We walk the full length. A pair of fossil hunters come down and begin tap-tapping away at rocks on the beach. “How do they know which rocks to break open?” Rachael asks. “The suspicious looking ones,” I tell her. She picks up what she decides is a rock that is definitely hiding something. She lifts it above her head, before releasing it down in to the boulders; rock smash. It’s super effective! The rock comes apart, but reveals no secrets. I wonder what the professionals think of this amateur approach. You’ve got to start somewhere. At the light house we pause to take jumpers off. Coming around another point, Rachael stops and points. A porpoise. A dolphin? What’s the difference, we can’t tell from here. There’s definitely something of interest. Birds bomb the sea’s surface in acts of violent self harm which in reality must be worse for the fish below. Seals bob in the bays. Big ones swim between headlands. There are so many birds, but still so many less than there once was. Crowds build after our quiet start. We share a bench with a Northern couple. He jokes they booked it. They don’t have the thermos of tea though. We walk down the hill to Robin Hood Bay. Rachael takes a photo for a chap in all his hiking gear. Long distance walker, Just finished the Coast to Coast. I start dreaming of days on the trail. We catch the bus back, still £2 fares. Why can’t more things be subsidised for the good of the people? A four hour walk reversed in 15 minutes.

For dinner we head out for fish and chips. Whitby, like anywhere this close to the coast, is famous for fish and chips. With some 20 odd to choose from we’d hit Sid up from a recommendation. He doesn’t have one but four. The Magpie is good, Mr Chips across the bridge, the Fisherman’s wife, though we’re told somebody else doesn’t like this. We settle on Trenchers. The price is good and so are the portions. We sit down on the harbour side, keeping half an eye on the overly interested gulls. We stop in at Beer O’Clock, which is a terrible name for a bar that doesn’t have that many beers. The others in here seems to be like up, passing through for a quick one. In the morning we walk part of the Cinder Track. A disused railway running from Whitby to Scarborough that’s now a cycle trail. Anything you can ride a bike on, I can walk on. We reach the viaduct over the Esk. There are so many bricks in the bridge, a relic of a time back when we used to start and then also finish infrastructure projects. Rachael and I both say maybe next time we could hire bikes and follow the whole trail. Easy to say when we don’t know when that will be. In what is fortunate timing on our part, Rachael’s Dad and partner, Joy, also happen to be in Whitby visiting Grandma this week. We head back to Grandma’s for me to be introduced before we head out for a drink and then dinner. I quickly learn that Dave’s phrase ‘let’s go for a wander’ is code for going to the next pub. After several pints we finish up with a three course Italian. I don’t remember the last time I felt so full. The next morning is our last in Whitby, we meet up again for breakfast in one of the pubs before Rachael and I load up the car, ready to move on for the next leg of our North East Road Trip.