I’m beginning to feel like Mr Benn. Every day I wake up in a different room and it takes a second to work out where I am and remember what I’m doing. Today I’m a sailor. At least I’m in a nautically themed bedroom in a harbour cottage built by a sea captain and seagulls are making a racket outside.
With another huge cooked breakfast under (and indeed over) my belt my landlady asks about today’s walk and when I tell her I’m off to Whitby she asks me whether the tide will allow me to traverse Runswick Bay. If only I had actually read my soggy guide book – it does actually say that you can’t complete this section of the walk if the tide is in. Fortunately it’s going to be out, but that’s just pure chance.
During check-out the landlady once again stands passively by and watches her cat rub moulting hair all over my rucksack and attempting to lick my water supply mouthpiece, before I whip it out of kitty’s unhygienic grasp. She is a cat obsessive to the point that not only does she let them do what they want but they know that they are more important than her or any of her guests.
Staithes harbour detains me for some more photos, not only of the natural scenery but also of the BBC camera unit filming Old Jacks Boat. What’s this? – CRIBBINS AHOY!!
Bernard Cribbins – the great old man himself – is there mulling around in the lead role of Old Jack. This is a man who has featured in Carry On films, worked with Alfred Hitchcock, appeared in a Bond film, narrated the Wombles and almost landed the Dr Who role ahead of Tom Baker.
From what I overheard last night in the Cod And Lobster he secured the Old Jack role ahead of Sir Ian McKellan, while his wage demands forced them to drop Angelina Jolie and Morgan Freeman from the original supporting cast. Just rumours mind. Apparently I’m not able to talk to him as he is “in character” but I do get to stroke Salty the dog – the real star of the show.
All of this is obviously a time-wasting scheme to delay my first hill of the day. In fact the hills are getting easier as is the walk itself.
Former quarrying site Port Mulgrave is soon upon me. A perplexed looking man asks me if there is a way down to the sea. I passed a sign to the cove just 30 yards back and I can see another sign ahead – he can’t have looked very hard. It’s only a tiny inlet and there won’t be much down there but since he pulled up in a Range Rover he probably just has a body to dump.
Runswick Bay 40 minutes later is an altogether more impressive affair. A rotund fisherman dressed for all-weather action sits in his fishing vessel as a tractor tows it to the sea. Incongruously he sips tea from a dainty cup while his vessel is not some crusty old wooden junk but a flash speedboat. Maybe he’s just some amateur carp fisherman who won the star prize on Bullseye.
The panoramic bay is sandy until it meets the cliffs which explains why the walk cannot be completed at high tide. Time to write a post card and read the Cleveland Way guide book – something I haven’t been doing since it was borrowed by Davy Crockett. It says that there are caves in the cliffs known as Hob Holes and that according to legend whooping cough can be cured by the hob-goblins that live in them. I could be mistaken but I’m sure I heard this quoted somewhere before, perhaps from Gillian McKeith.
Did the hob goblins sense my scepticism and seek to punish me? All I know is that after passing the caves and entering a signposted gully I managed to miss the turn-off for the trail and continue walking up a steep path for some considerable distance, through a strange assortment of grouse enclosures littered with shotgun cartridges. The mistake cost me an hour and robbed me of my sanity. On the plus side I saw an otter that I would otherwise have missed, in a hillbilly valley that was just one banjo short of “Deliverence”.
Once normality is restored the journey to Sandsend is easy and rapid. The precipitous cliff path offers some dramatic views down to the sea with the horizon broken only by the odd container ship. There’s a hive of farming activity on the landside as purposeful growling machines plough and harvest. I envy the farm-hand that gets to drive the Claus Dominator. Their workload must diminish a little each year as landside succumbs to landslide.
Eventually I round the headland into Sandsend where I camp myself at a cafe overlooking the beach and order a coffee. There’s plenty to keep me entertained. Four cute ducks waddle in line across the sand until they reach a freshwater stream that feeds the sea. An ADHD kid runs around the sandy expanse shouting to nobody like a lunatic (I’m just jealous). Best of all, a flash-mob style gathering of people picking through the piles of storm blown driftwood for any samples that can be passed off as art or interior decoration. Habitat is dead. Long live Habitat.
There is just enough time to complete the walk to Whitby via the long sandy beach before the rising tide closes my window of opportunity.
I know Whitby well and my B&B on East Terrace is of classic build and in a great location.
I learn that it was built as a home for Captain Cook’s wife who presumably had the run of the place most of the time, what with Jimmy always swanning around places like Hawaii discovering new cocktails.
A light evening squall deposits just enough rain to clear the streets of casual tourists leaving silent Whitby at its most dramatic, as dusk approaches and the Abbey falls into shadow over the east cliff. I steal a window seat in the Duke Of York at the foot of those steps nursing a pint while watching the harbour lights flicker into life as the rain beats down. Whitby’s still got it.
Here’s today’s walk in point form…
In a nutshell
A day full of drama: a film set in Staithes, a personal melodrama in Runswick Bay, the setting of a literary classic in Whitby
Meeting Salty the dog
Getting lost in redneck country
A short walk to Robin Hoods Bay – another very special place
|Stage||7 – Staithes to Whitby|
|Distance||13.2 miles||Speed||2.6 mph|
…and the route taken…