7 September 2016 - Sandfield House Farm Caravan Park, Whitby, North Yorkshire

We left our departure from Houghton-le-Spring until late in the morning, our hostess in no hurry to shoo us out. In fact she held us up for some time when it did come time to go, lamenting the behaviour of some campers, with and without their dogs. She had just finished cleaning up a particularly revolting mess left by one of the guests’ dogs, and even as a dog owner herself, was appalled at the prospect of having to do so. Equally so was I when I had been taking up the power cord and had to deal with the residue of a half-hearted attempt to clean up crap dropped there. 

And so we finally left the Tyne & Wear area, still not having explored nearby Sunderland, which shares so much of Newcastle’s history and then some. The twentieth century made and broke the city, from being the largest ship building centre in the world to a major slump caused by ferocious bombing during the Second World War, the Depression and recession. Apparently there is an excellent museum in the city centre which we should have made more of an effort to visit since we passed through a couple of times on the train, but there is only so much one can pack into a day.

South of Tyne & Wear is the County of Durham, which we had probably given greater attention to that that further north, and could have spent even more time had there been enough days. We travelled on south past Hartlepool, and over the River Tees through the industrial cities of Stockton-on-Tees and Middlesborough, not stopping or even interested to do so. From the A19 the area was most unappealing although I am sure we would have found something in its favour had it been on our itinerary.

The contemplation of the Captain

From here we turned east onto the A171, pausing beside the highway just outside Guisborough to lunch, then came across the northern reaches of the northern Yorkshire moors to our camp here on the northern outskirts of Whitby on the North Yorkshire coast. With a tariff of £27 per night we were starting from a negative position, and were in the first instance appalled to see the hundreds of caravans lined up on the hill slope facing the sea. The lovely young couple on the reception counter assured us that most of the caravans were owned by seasonal visitors and now that most of the children had returned to school, we would find the camp relatively quiet. We were escorted to the site, which although more level than the natural geographical lay of the land, still required a lot of fiddling about to please The Chauffeur. 

Here there are clean, spacious facilities and washing machines that need £4 before being followed by the dryers which I did not bother checking out. Clothes lines, even such as my fancy little camping one, are not allowed. Our laundry can wait until our next destination.

We spent the afternoon pouring over our guide books and maps and planning the days ahead, before relaxing in the van with the sun shining outside and the gulls calling far above us.

Lovely Whitby

After a restless night, blamed in part to the unexpected humidity, we rose with plans to explore Whitby. After breakfast we set off in the car a couple of miles to the south where we found the Sainsbury superstore. There we refuelled and re-provisioned with the important things of life: fruit and vegetables, bread, cheese, milk, meat and wine. Let it never be said that we short change ourselves of these necessities of life! 

After we had stowed everything away, we set off from camp on foot back into town, officially a mile distant, although I think that measure might be taken from the extreme northern end of the residential area. Most of our route took us along the top of the West Cliff, the name rather confusing because this is the northern edge of the town on the northern bank of the River Esk which spills out into the North Sea here, and further, this is the east coast of the country.

Whitby developed as a holiday resort in the nineteenth century following the arrival of the railway. Wide streets, elegant crescents of elegant residences, boarding houses and hotels sprang up on the heights of this West Cliff, where there are two “monuments” to celebrate Whitby’s contribution to history and enterprise. The whalebone arch refers to the whaling industry and the statue of Captain Cook stands sentinel looking across out to sea where he spent his formative years. 

James Cook was born in Marton-in-Cleveland in 1728, then moved to Great Ayton with his family eight years later. In 1746 he served his apprenticeship with Quaker John Walker in Whitby, spending his seagoing years carting coal up and down the coast, until he joined the Royal Navy in 1755 and went on to do all the marvellous navigational, mapping and exploration that brought our ancestors to the Antipodes . He is an integral part of the history of all Australians and New Zealanders, hence my familiarity with this great man.

We left him to his quiet contemplation of today’s calm seas and pressed on down the many steps toward the river bank and the harbour front which was already busy with tourists. There are some amusement arcades here, but to dwell on these eyesores would be unfair; Whitby does not leave the impression of the normal kitsch type of seaside resort.

We crossed the river on the narrow opening road bridge and wandered about the narrow lanes of the old town, where here were to be found classier craft and souvenir shops, and little boutiques, amongst the pubs and cafes. Here by the river is the Captain Cook Museum where we spent over an hour. Located in what was once John Walker’s house, it is owned by a non-profit Trust manned by volunteers, some who have been there for over a dozen years and should retire. We have encountered over enthusiastic museum guides during our travels in Australia and elsewhere, and while they are certainly passionate about their subject, committed and loyal to the cause, there comes a time when the aged need to gracefully retire and let younger folk take their place. However I do also recognise that there are not always the younger folk who are willing to do so. It is a problem with no easy solution.

Pulpit complete with ear trumpets

However for all that, the museum is brilliantly curated, covers several floors, and today included a special exhibition titled “Wives and Sweethearts: the Sailor’s Farewell” which examines the life of those left at home holding the fort, and all too often, the widows of explorers, such as James Cook and William Bligh.

Having visited the James Cook Museum up in Cooktown in Queensland, Australia, we had been rather spoilt, and could not help but compare. The Australian museum is superior; however this should not deter the visitor to this Whitby shrine.

We sat in the sunny courtyard of the museum, a spot where James and his sailing mates may well have sat in the mid-1700s. The gulls called loudly from the chimney pots above us while we ate our lunch, and we looked out over the river delighting in the scene before us.

St Mary's church

Watered and fed, we headed up the steep one hundred and ninety nine steps to the south headland, stopping firstly at the church of St Mary. We found this to be the strangest church we had visited; it reminded me of the Lutheran Church we had visited in London when I went looking for the marriage place of my Bettjeman great grandparents. There I had seen, for the first time, high walled pews, reminding one of the dim penned interior of a shearing shed. But this was not a Lutheran place of worship; it was Anglican. It is an architectural mix of styles which includes a Norman chancel arch dating back to 1110, a profusion of eighteenth century panelling, shoulder high box pews already mentioned and a triple decker pulpit. This latter has built-in ear trumpets which were once graced with tubes for the auditory benefit of a long gone rector’s deaf wife. There are apparently 262 pews which can accommodate 1,834 bottoms; I am not sure whether this includes the more regular style rows of pews on the mezzanine floor.

Whitby Abbey ruins

Out in the churchyard there are hundreds and hundreds of tombstones, most of sandstone which has been worn away over the years, erasing the inscriptions. 

A short distance away, a little to the south, are the ruins of Whitby Abbey, administered by English Heritage. Apart from low lying stone shapes, there is little left for the public here but the remains of the massive nave, soaring north transept and lancets of the east end hinting at the buildings former grandeur. We made the most of the audio guides on offer and wandered about in the sunshine, learning what we could; information offered to those without these guides was deficient. 

Cholmey's grand home

Entry to the abbey is gained through a very smart visitor centre situated in the remains of a grand home built in 1672 by Sir Hugh Cholmey II. His father had acquired the lease of the property from Henry VIII after the dissolution of the monasteries, along with significant areas of land all about. Materials for the house were easily sourced; there was an empty abbey in the back garden with more stone that anyone could possibly need. Needless to say this Grand Design fell into disrepair in later years and is not a tourist destination in itself.

The monastery was founded in 657, and by 664 had become important enough to host the Synod of Whitby , an event of seminal importance for the development of the English brand of Christianity. It was here that the date Easter should be celebrated was settled, and where Roman rites were adopted over the Celtic Church.

Just over two hundred years later, the monastery fell victim to the invading Danes, and the site did not regain importance until the Normans arrived and the Benedictines re-founded the abbey, but in a much grander style. 

A moment to rest

We were glad we had made the effort to visit the abbey ruins even if only to have the opportunity to enjoy the stupendous views over Whitby, which delighted us, over and over again.

Back down in the town we ate ice creams on the waterfront while lingering with hundreds of other tourists listening to buskers and tour operators touting for business. It was already mid-afternoon and so we headed back toward camp, this time up through the town away from the cliff edge along the route we had driven in yesterday.