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Whitby is a Yorkshire fishing port and seaside town, once the haunt of whalers and smugglers, now thronged with holiday-makers and day-trippers. On one side of the town lay the beautiful Yorkshire moors, on the other the cruel North Sea. In between, red-roofed cottages cling to crumbling cliffs, surmounted by an ancient church, and the ruins of an even older abbey, and the River Esk splits the town in two, finishing it's long journey, and flowing into the sea. At the river's gaping mouth, the twin wings of Whitby's harbour welcome trawler-men and lobster-potters home after their time at sea. Winding cobbled streets are lined with shops selling jewellery made from Whitby Jet, and with others selling all manner of antiques and curiosities, as well as locally-caught seafood and locally-smoked kippers. Of course, there are also characterful pubs aplenty. Across the bay, opposite the ancient church and abbey, stalked by Dracula in the eponymous tome by Bram Stoker, lay Whitby's big houses and hotels, the whale-bone arch, and a monument to one of Yorkshire's most famous sailors, Captain James Cook. If you ever get the chance to visit this corner of England, and fancy a trip to the coast, I can recommend no other English seaside town more highly than Whitby. It is much busier than it was when I first came here more than 30 years ago, but still full of interest and character, and pretty as a Yorkshire rose.
It is has been too long since I visited the lovely old town, and so I jumped at the opportunity to go there with my pal Kiwi Ned, on what we knew would be a busy Bank Holiday Saturday. Sandwiches packed and coffee made, Ned picked me up early in his car Nestor, and we headed off. Before we did so though, Ned, who is a blacksmith by trade, handed me a piece of cloth, inside which was wrapped a Damascus-steel blade he'd made for me. It still needs hardening, and hafting of course, which is something I'll have to give some thought to, but it was certainly a great start to the day.
We made good time, and decided to stop at the North Yorkshire market-town of Pickering. So far as I can remember, I had never been here before, but Ned is familiar with the place and showed me around. A small independent outdoor shop turned out to be a bit of a hidden gem, with lots of interesting and unusual items, including a range of knives and axes. It is a family-owned and run business, and the ladies behind the counter were both friendly and helpful. Not wishing to have to return to a certain Malton hardware store (see http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/s...Yorkshire-With-A-Knife-The-Joker-amp-The-Fool), I took the opportunity to buy another Joker knife, plumping for the olive wood version this time. On close inspection, fit and finish are very slightly behind the previous model purchased, but for the price, this still seems like a very nice knife. I compliment them on their knives, and the lady serving me tells me they decided to give them a go after 'the lads', her son and husband as I understand it, went on a bushcraft course, and they've done quite well from them since.
Ned next took me to an indoor fleamarket, which had a few things of interest, including a letter-opener knife, but I could see no other slipjoints. I passed on the letter-opener and left empty-handed, but I did think the place worthy of a return visit.
We strolled up to the castle, and then walked to the railway station, from where steam trains run north to Whitby. A train was due to depart and we watched it do so, chuffing out of the station beneath a plume of smoke.
Resuming our own journey, we headed over the scenic Yorkshire Moors, ablaze with the rich purple hues of heather and lavender in bloom, eventually beginning the descent to the coast, with fine views enhanced by the amethyst ribbon beyond Yorkshire's eastern headland. The traffic began to slow as we started the steep descent into Whitby itself, but Ned knew an alternative route, which not only circumvented the worst of the traffic, but terminated in an excellent parking spot. From here, we walked across the Esk Vallley railway line, seeing the train we had watched leave Pickering about to return. Crossing the track, we laughed at the sign on the front of a wheel-clamped camper van, the lie given to its promise of early departure by the brambles growing across the bonnet (hood) and windscreen.
Feeling hungry, we bought chips (fries) from one of Whitby's numerous fish and chip shops. The tendered portion turned out to be the smallest serving of chips either of us had ever seen. Ned and I are not impressed.
Continuing along the left bank of the River Esk, we soon came to the swing bridge which divides Whitby, and crossed over into Old Town and cobbled streets which have changed little in decades. Shops sell the British seaside speciality of 'rock', sticks of hard teeth-breaking candy, which carry the lettered name of individual resorts all the way through them, from end to sickly sweet end. There are others selling freshly caught fish and seafood, which is always several times the price of that sold by the markets and fish-mongers miles inland. An abundance of jewellery shops specialise in coal-black Whitby Jet.
In recent decades Whitby has also traded on its place in Bram Stoker's novel, selling a growing variety of vampire tat to pasty-faced 'Goths', who flock to the town in ever-increasing numbers. There are shops which cater to the black-clad faux blood-suckers, and the various sub-cults, of which there are apparently a great many.
I am pleased to see that The Black Horse, my old Whitby watering-hole, looks exactly the same as when I last visited, and closeby is an independent outdoor shop and army stores, which has also been here since I first visited the town. One window of the shop is filled with an assortment of knives, from Victorinox SAKs and Opinels to Sheffield-made Bowies. I step inside, but it is as crowded as the teeming cobbled streets. I retreat, only to be caught in the throng outside, the world and his wife seem to be in Whitby for the day.
Whitby's cobbled streets are continually bisected by small lanes and alleys, 'snickets and snickelways' leading to ancient yards and dwellings, a labyrinth which once helped smugglers to evade the Excise Men and move their cargo through the town. Their peacefulness looks inviting compared to the hustle and bustle of the main street, but we continue, dodging the crowds as deftly as two large men can do.
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