Whitby

One of the reasons we decided to hole up at a campsite was to give Vicky time (and electricity) to get the sewing machine out and attempt to reupholster the bench cushion, whose cream leatherette surface had begun to flake, leaving trails of what looked like porridge oats strewn over the floor and stuck to our clothing! Will had worked out how much new material we'd need and we found the right stuff in Dunelm. The cushion was a tricky U shape so Vicky had taken the time consuming but easier option of deconstructing the original, effectively giving her 6 templates to draw around on the new fabric.

Needing new thread, Will searched online and found a craft store in nearby Whitby, so to the coast we went! Being a Saturday, we set off straight after breakfast and managed to find a place to park. The car park had recently put up 'no overnight parking' signs but we were ok for a few hours. Will knew Whitby a little from when he used to live in Goole but it had changed considerably since he last visited, with new buildings making it feel more crowded, although the iconic ruined abbey still towered over the town. The river mouth was busy so we had a mooch along the highstreet, taking the opportunity to peruse the charity shops you don't see so much on the European mainland. There were a few bakers, a greengrocer and butchers but we felt this area was lacking in individuality and character. Turning off the mainstreet and wending our way up a steep hill, we found Whitby Crafts and a hint of that unique personality that lodges a town in your memory. A small shop, packed floor to ceiling with fabric and tools of the trade, this haberdashery was run by someone who knew a lot more about sewing than either of us! She was able to give advice and we came away with what we wanted, as well as things we hadn't realised we'd need, such as specialist leather needles.

By this time it was beginning to get very busy and the density of people intensified as we made our way back towards the waterfront. We'd thought we might have fish and chips but neither of us felt hungry enough so we picked up a pasty and a slice of quiche from a butchers and ate them looking out over the river mouth, where tour boats took on passengers, ready to pass between the two lighthouses, standing sentry-like, on tall stone walls, at the point where river became sea.

Neither of us like crowds and by now it was very crowded, so it was time to make our exit. We'd parked by the railway line and as we approached, a steam engine was backing into the station, grey smoke billowing from its shining black chimney. We saw it, or another just like it, powering through the green valley as we took the long way back to the campsite, soaking up the dappled summer shade of mature oaks reaching accross the road and the open rolling moorland.Read more