Yorkshire – Whitby Saturday
When we arrived in Whitby at the edge of the sea in the North (I can hear John Snow talking) we thought there was really no reason to ever venture away from the home fires, but we did. Always the adventurers we had to see what was on the other side of the hill, but today we stay, joining the throngs of tourists and locals—planning on doing a little bit of what each does.
Too late to buy meat pies yesterday when we got in from our sojourn in Rievaulx, we head for the butcher shop early this morning. The only downside is that we must travel up a very steep hill to get there. We’re kids in a candy store and we order one medium steak pie, one tiny pork pie, a large slice of ham quiche and the same size of a cheese and onion quiche. For less than £10 we have one dinner, one lunch, two breakfasts, and one happy hour snack. All we need now are accompaniments.
Michael heads for the flat to stow our stash while I survey the kitchen store, agreeing to meet him at the bench by the swing-bridge. The Co-op Grocery Store is much—MUCH—larger than the one in Grange-on-Sands and after we choose fresh vegetables we have to hunt and peck and backtrack to find everything else.
Our Saturday marketing done, we join the throngs of tourists (Michael says, “I didn’t know you were booking us into Disneyland.”) headed for the Quay. I know if I mention lunch he is going to shake his head and point to his tummy, but I risk it, explaining it is the tourist thing to do; buying fish and chips takeout and eating them from the box while finding someplace to sit or stand among everyone else. We share a small order from Magpie’s, using one fork and eating with our fingers while we stand next to a wall overlooking the beach.
We continue our journey walking toward the tallest tower at the entrance to the estuary. Michael of course wants to walk all the way to end, explore the area and climb the tower. Me? I just want to sit and be and absorb. We divide and conquer and are both happy.
His exploration accomplished, Michael joins me at the bench, saying, “I want an ice cream. How about you?” Giving up on sanity and health I go along with a little more decadence in our diet. We live above a health food store but have never darkened its door.
Licking our cones like kids we head to the other side of the bridge in search of the establishment that unleashes revelers below our windows at midnight, 2 a.m. and 4 a.m. —every night. Singing, talking, laughing, even having lover’s spats. I slept through that one, but Michael relays the conversation.
“She said ‘I love you.’ He said ‘get away from me.’ She said, ‘But I LOVE you.’ He said, ‘Go away.’” Ad Infinitum. Michael tells me he then looked out the window to see who the lovers were and suddenly they were both on their phones—she giving him a number, him making the call. On the other end of the line the individual must not have been too pleased because the next thing he heard was, “‘Yes I know what time it is.’”
We walk up our pedestrian thoroughfare, turn and walk some more and cannot find the offending establishment. Giving up we return home in time for gin and tonic and crisps.