Writings

A Break in Whitby, much missed for 6 years.

I knew I was back in my native Yorkshire county when we recklessly turned up in the Magpie's queue, literally hot from the beach. It was an unprecendented 32 degrees on Whitby sands that day. We arrived in our glory, suncreamed, sweaty, gritty with sand and carrying all the folding chairs, buckets and spades, towels and sundries that a party of five adults and one four year old needed for an afternoon on the beach. It wasn't a long queue. After a while, a woman appeared at the top of the steps.

"Any of you a party of twelve?" she bellowed. We all obediently answered, truthfully, that we were not and had just turned up to wait. "Oh. Did yer?" she answered.

Those few words, heavily expressed with that lethally deadpan intonation so particular to Yorkshire, were all she needed to really say, "Are you out of your tiny stupid minds? Does it look remotely possible to come here on the off-chance, looking like that? You haven't got a hope in hell without a reservation, and you don't deserve one either. Idiots."

We duly made a reservation and the following evening sailed past the other misguided fools waiting trustingly outside, as we had done the night before. The food really was delicious, in spite of the warm Yorkshire welcome we had initially received!

Some things have changed since my daughter's childhood holidays there. No donkeys on the sands on any of the days, which was rather sad. But there were waves to be jumped, delicious pastries to scoff from Botham's, the 199 steps to the Abbey, a stormy sea trip round the harbour on the mini Endeavour, and fish and chips galore. What more could you want, with one perfect day on the beach to start us off?

Whitby and the surrounding area is the fictionalised setting for my historical novel 'Seahaven', taking place in a lawless 1700's East Yorkshire, available from Amazon in paperback and e-book. See the link here to see more about the  book, my five star reviews and to order. I hope it will capture your imagination if you read it and please do leave me another review!

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Seahaven-Ruth-Enright/dp/1739912624

Share this page

Two teddies are now

Both in my keeping,

Gifts to toddler grandchildren, us.

When new, Bruin was purple, larger,

With a deep growl.

My brother's.

Teddy was smaller, fawn,

Mine.

He lost his growl after an unfortunate fall 

And a sink bath.

I loved Teddy with a depth which included emotional guilt.

I was jealous because Bruin was bigger and purple

And  my own ted  must never know of that.

I was the oldest but the girl.

Perhaps that played into who got which bear.

Bruin is no longer purple,

Faded after decades on my brother's windowsills,

At home and in his flat.

For a few years now, both have looked down from

The high shelf beside my daughter's childhood raised bed.

They leaned together, slightly forward,

As if wanting to come down.

I climbed up to get them the other day and soon saw why.

Both lambswool, moths have pecked their back legs into small

bald patches.

It's been a poignant time as my mother has lately died too.

I felt I had let them down, the two teds, 

Neglected while cherished still.

I've dusted them off and put them on the coverlet

Of the single bed below,

Where they seem more contented, two old men together.

Better now, their worn little faces seem to say.