Day 3: Friday 23rd September
You join us again at the inn at Cropton; it’s 7:48am and some berk has just opened one of the doors downstairs. The doors that, if opened before 8am, cause the burglar alarm to go off. The doors that the landlord and eight notices warned us about. Curiously, I’ve already been awake – early to bed, early to rise, on this trip – but had fallen asleep again so it’s actually helpful. Breakfast’s meant to be served during the curiously narrow window of 8:45 ‘til 9:15, but in fact it’s already in full swing at 8:40. We’re served by a pleasant woman who pronounces ‘breakfast’ the way it’s written. I explore the garden a little whilst D pays the bill, and make a note (at some point) to remember mentioning that the heritage board in Melton Mowbray on Wednesday revealed spider-racing to have been an erstwhile popular sport there.
Leaving Cropton (which turns out to be a slightly larger settlement than I’d realised), we take minor roads to Pickering, home of the North Yorkshire Moors Railway. I rode the railway when I was little, so we don’t bother this time, but hang around to watch the engine building up steam and pulling out of the station. I reflect on how filthy the country must have been when all trains (and factories, and houses, and power stations) were coal-powered. We explore the town, which is a very pleasant country place, and I’m rather taken by a coffee shop offering
From Pickering we take a toll-road through the forest; by this time it’s absolutely tipping down, but we stop to walk to a couple of viewpoints anyway. This is quite possibly sheer folly. I take careful note of the sign sternly warning me to follow the arrows, and more importantly,
Heading East we finally reach the coast I saw on Coast, at Scarborough. I know it has a history as the most genteel of seaside resorts, but in this dull weather it doesn’t really have a chance, and D later repeatedly proclaims his dislike for the place. For me, it’s far from the worst place I’ve ever been (Northampton) but I don’t really see how any town with a street full of noisy, flashing arcades can ever fit my interpretation of ‘tasteful’. Here, and in several other places later in the week, it’s clear that everyday is school-trip day… Lunchtime is approaching but we’re disinclined to linger, resolving to wait until Whitby before buying chips.
And so north to Ravenscar, site of the alum works so charmingly demonstrated by the Lovely Alice Roberts as well, curiously, as a failed plan to build a big housing estate on a high cliff in the middle of nowhere-in-particular. The beginnings of a grid of streets, and a few incongruous-looking suburban-style houses are all the evidence on the ground. There’s a nice National Trust visitor centre manned by a nice National Trust lady, with exhibits (one of them olfactory) about the alum works and the surrounding area. A 1960s newspaper report about the demolition of the works is marginally less interesting than the court round-up in the next column, giving details of all those motorists (including names and addresses) prosecuted for such offences as ‘parking without lights’ and ‘incomplete radiator grille’. I would bemoan the lack of such scrupulous enforcement of the Highway Code these days, were it not for the suspicion that I would on my next outing be pulled up on what would suddenly seem a trifling matter, by police who ought to spend their time catching some real criminals, &c. &c. Hehe. We buy some Yorkshire Dales ice cream (Made in Wales) and some Kendal Mint-Cake (which, come to think of it, might still be in the car) and head for Robin Hood’s Bay. Here, D orders a sandwich at a café to keep himself going until Whitby, and I drink some tea. The village is hugely picturesque, conjuring up fishing and smuggling and lifeboats (apparently they once had to bring one overland with a hundred men clearing a path through the snow because the sea was so rough), its thoroughfares amazingly narrow and steep.
North again, we reach Whitby, whose harbour featured in the intriguing preamble to our first second-year lecture on hearing (by the unique Professor Mollon). Famed also, of course, for its Abbey (which obviously caught my imagination when I visited aged about six, and scrawled on the back of a picture-postcard ‘The Best Abbey’), Dracula, and fish & chips. As it turns out, the chips here really are better than I’ve had anywhere else; not that I’m a particular connoisseur of deep-fried potatoes. We walk up and down the pier, and I’m delighted to spot some of the BBC’s Coast information boards, giving a number to telephone and hear stories. I don’t, of course. I am a little concerned by the warning to ‘use your mobile phone discreetly, for your own safety’ and rather hope that it’s just the result of being written by a hardened Londoner fearful of litigation rather than a reflection on the gangland terror of Whitby, which, I’m happy to say, was notably absent. Apparently there was a seal swimming around in the harbour, but I didn’t manage to spot it. Not that that’s relevant. Unless it was part of a vicious pinniped protection racket. But I digress. I leave Whitby quietly impressed, though the parking spaces are a little narrow.
Never (on this trip, at least) looking for the easy route, we set off across the moors towards Middlesbrough. It’s glorious up here; even at 35mph I feel like a rally driver and am having tremendous fun. But dark clouds are looming. We try to put off stopping to raise the roof, until we drive over a cattle-grid and into a cloudburst. In hindsight perhaps I should’ve tried backing up a bit… but instead we sit, urging the roof to move faster as we’d prefer the outside to be wetter than the inside. What fun. With the roof up the rain soon stops again, as we pass through the places D used to go to on Scout Camp.
And so to Middlesbrough, possibly one of Britain’s least desirable places to live. But, as I’ll find out over the next few days, it’s really not as bad as all that. Or, indeed, as Northampton. I’ll say straight away in its defence that it smells a lot better – well, less bad – than it used to. Note: I’m going to resort to clumsy nicknames for my family for no particular reason. We arrive at Grandma’s house, a day later and a person more than she’d originally expected. Aunt and Uncle B are here for two nights too, and we decide that the Holiday Inn is a better bet than a slightly overcrowded house. I head off for the evening with Grandma and Aunt B to Aunt C’s house, whilst D and Uncles A, B and C go out on the town*. Not a great one for pubs, me. So I sit eating ice-cream and watching Shrek with Cousin C. Back at Grandma’s, Uncle B arrives to tell us that the town is full of dreadful yuppie-bars these days, and we all bemoan the state of things and I eat chocolate cake, before driving back to the Inn. At length D arrives and orders pizza, which he doesn’t really want by the time it turns up, but I’m happy enough to eat my share. And so to bed.
---
*[I spot Uncle A driving with his foglights on; he promises it was accidental and I'm prepared to believe him. So you see, there is a genuine chance that some foglight freaks are only accidental members of that unhappy band ... albeit a slim one]
Posted at 23:40 on Sunday 16th October
Leaving Cropton (which turns out to be a slightly larger settlement than I’d realised), we take minor roads to Pickering, home of the North Yorkshire Moors Railway. I rode the railway when I was little, so we don’t bother this time, but hang around to watch the engine building up steam and pulling out of the station. I reflect on how filthy the country must have been when all trains (and factories, and houses, and power stations) were coal-powered. We explore the town, which is a very pleasant country place, and I’m rather taken by a coffee shop offering
latté (LAH-tay)and amuse myself imagining some flat-cap-wearing Yorkshire farmer saying it. Not that there’s anything wrong with Yorkshire farmers, I just don’t suppose they’re as in to the extensive variations of coffee as are wealthy London women &c. One of the estate agents impresses me greatly by having an iMac G5 on the desk.
From Pickering we take a toll-road through the forest; by this time it’s absolutely tipping down, but we stop to walk to a couple of viewpoints anyway. This is quite possibly sheer folly. I take careful note of the sign sternly warning me to follow the arrows, and more importantly,
Do Not Follow The Blue Man- looks like some kind of streaker, or possibly Gray. Good advice, I’m sure. The short walk to the viewpoint reveals a total white-out, but hey, it’s good to be out.
Heading East we finally reach the coast I saw on Coast, at Scarborough. I know it has a history as the most genteel of seaside resorts, but in this dull weather it doesn’t really have a chance, and D later repeatedly proclaims his dislike for the place. For me, it’s far from the worst place I’ve ever been (Northampton) but I don’t really see how any town with a street full of noisy, flashing arcades can ever fit my interpretation of ‘tasteful’. Here, and in several other places later in the week, it’s clear that everyday is school-trip day… Lunchtime is approaching but we’re disinclined to linger, resolving to wait until Whitby before buying chips.
And so north to Ravenscar, site of the alum works so charmingly demonstrated by the Lovely Alice Roberts as well, curiously, as a failed plan to build a big housing estate on a high cliff in the middle of nowhere-in-particular. The beginnings of a grid of streets, and a few incongruous-looking suburban-style houses are all the evidence on the ground. There’s a nice National Trust visitor centre manned by a nice National Trust lady, with exhibits (one of them olfactory) about the alum works and the surrounding area. A 1960s newspaper report about the demolition of the works is marginally less interesting than the court round-up in the next column, giving details of all those motorists (including names and addresses) prosecuted for such offences as ‘parking without lights’ and ‘incomplete radiator grille’. I would bemoan the lack of such scrupulous enforcement of the Highway Code these days, were it not for the suspicion that I would on my next outing be pulled up on what would suddenly seem a trifling matter, by police who ought to spend their time catching some real criminals, &c. &c. Hehe. We buy some Yorkshire Dales ice cream (Made in Wales) and some Kendal Mint-Cake (which, come to think of it, might still be in the car) and head for Robin Hood’s Bay. Here, D orders a sandwich at a café to keep himself going until Whitby, and I drink some tea. The village is hugely picturesque, conjuring up fishing and smuggling and lifeboats (apparently they once had to bring one overland with a hundred men clearing a path through the snow because the sea was so rough), its thoroughfares amazingly narrow and steep.
North again, we reach Whitby, whose harbour featured in the intriguing preamble to our first second-year lecture on hearing (by the unique Professor Mollon). Famed also, of course, for its Abbey (which obviously caught my imagination when I visited aged about six, and scrawled on the back of a picture-postcard ‘The Best Abbey’), Dracula, and fish & chips. As it turns out, the chips here really are better than I’ve had anywhere else; not that I’m a particular connoisseur of deep-fried potatoes. We walk up and down the pier, and I’m delighted to spot some of the BBC’s Coast information boards, giving a number to telephone and hear stories. I don’t, of course. I am a little concerned by the warning to ‘use your mobile phone discreetly, for your own safety’ and rather hope that it’s just the result of being written by a hardened Londoner fearful of litigation rather than a reflection on the gangland terror of Whitby, which, I’m happy to say, was notably absent. Apparently there was a seal swimming around in the harbour, but I didn’t manage to spot it. Not that that’s relevant. Unless it was part of a vicious pinniped protection racket. But I digress. I leave Whitby quietly impressed, though the parking spaces are a little narrow.
Never (on this trip, at least) looking for the easy route, we set off across the moors towards Middlesbrough. It’s glorious up here; even at 35mph I feel like a rally driver and am having tremendous fun. But dark clouds are looming. We try to put off stopping to raise the roof, until we drive over a cattle-grid and into a cloudburst. In hindsight perhaps I should’ve tried backing up a bit… but instead we sit, urging the roof to move faster as we’d prefer the outside to be wetter than the inside. What fun. With the roof up the rain soon stops again, as we pass through the places D used to go to on Scout Camp.
And so to Middlesbrough, possibly one of Britain’s least desirable places to live. But, as I’ll find out over the next few days, it’s really not as bad as all that. Or, indeed, as Northampton. I’ll say straight away in its defence that it smells a lot better – well, less bad – than it used to. Note: I’m going to resort to clumsy nicknames for my family for no particular reason. We arrive at Grandma’s house, a day later and a person more than she’d originally expected. Aunt and Uncle B are here for two nights too, and we decide that the Holiday Inn is a better bet than a slightly overcrowded house. I head off for the evening with Grandma and Aunt B to Aunt C’s house, whilst D and Uncles A, B and C go out on the town*. Not a great one for pubs, me. So I sit eating ice-cream and watching Shrek with Cousin C. Back at Grandma’s, Uncle B arrives to tell us that the town is full of dreadful yuppie-bars these days, and we all bemoan the state of things and I eat chocolate cake, before driving back to the Inn. At length D arrives and orders pizza, which he doesn’t really want by the time it turns up, but I’m happy enough to eat my share. And so to bed.
---
*[I spot Uncle A driving with his foglights on; he promises it was accidental and I'm prepared to believe him. So you see, there is a genuine chance that some foglight freaks are only accidental members of that unhappy band ... albeit a slim one]
Posted at 23:40 on Sunday 16th October
posted by Z31 at 3:00 am
3 Comments:
Very good, but why do you hate Northampton so much?
TCH
Does a fellow need a reason? That's fellow, not Fellow, if you see what I mean. Though whether a Fellow needs a reason is an equally reasonable if somewhat irrelevant question. Anyway, perhaps my experience with Northampton should be one of those enigmas, like Morse's first name or the location of Springfield. Not that there's much to tell. I will say, however, that I had the misfortune to drive through it on Day 1 (the road, apparently, doesn't allow one to bypass it) and my opinion hadn't changed. The mania of other drivers was, for once, understandable as an urge to escape.
Relatedly, does Othello need a reason?
Evidently yes, but not a substantiated one.
This may be getting to one of those 'Even I don't understand what I'm talking about' moments.
TCH
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