the voyage never ends...

It was raining when I arrived in Whitby. Without any warning the great Northern Cycling trail stopped in the middle of a country mud parapet, announced by a barricade. A tiny board indicated the Abbey viewpoint – at a distance, through the haze and the moistness on my goggles I could see the outlines of the famed Whitby Abbey.

After a few minutes of wandering, I found the hotel – a quiet Bread and Breakfast overlooking a grand continental style promenade. The whole promenade was packed like I had anticipated it to be: families on bank holiday breaks, runners timing their runs on the beach, elderly ladies walking their Terriers. All of this with the grey north sea in the background looked charmingly vintage – like a washed out impressionist painting.

A few hours later the clouds started thinning out and the rain stopped. After a quick shower I strolled out into the town in eager anticipation. I had no particular plan for the days. I had waited too long for the rain to stop at Robin Hood’s Bay that I had actually abandoned the idea of using the day for any productive purpose. Now that the rains had ceased I just strolled through the market which was empty and abandoned. I climbed the 99 steps of the abbey and located myself on one of the benches that overlooked the the town. It was spectacular: It became clear that Whitby was a town not just to visit but to revisit. I must say I have never been to a town that is more compact yet filled with so many beautiful attractions imaginable. Basically, it had everything: A river that divided the town into east and west cliffs before pouring unto the sea as an open estuary. Two bridges over the river. An harbour weighed by its history, twin piers snaking into the ocean punctuated by their own separate light houses. A hillock with a cathedral and an abbey with a story of its own. All pieces adding to its own parcel of a jigsaw of Gothic mystery.

River Esk estuary opening to the North sea ( unseen here) with Whitby Abbey in the background ( 10 O’ Clock)

A wave of relief and anger passed over me. Relief that I had finally completed this cycling journey that I had promised myself so many years ago and anger for having delayed it. And as I thought about it in the orange dusk, with gentle sea breeze warming my ears, I figured that the anger was not just at me, but also at so many of my friends and acquaintances who lived in Yorkshire but never once had mentioned of the beauty of this charming little town on the Yorkshire coast.

After a few minutes I walked down the steps, a lot calmer and famished.