My trip up north was an outstanding success. Highlights include gorgeous views, great food, hotel rooms all to myself, lots of writing, and medieval ruins.
Yorkshire, as far as I can tell, is what people think of when they think of England and not just London. Words used to describe said place are: quaint, peaceful, idyllic. Small stone cottages, wild, untrimmed green spaces, silence interrupted only by sheep in your garden and birds around your head. Idyllic is definitely the word. Perhaps a little too idyllic. There's a reason so many stories begin with a quiet, calm village and end in tears and blood. There must be something bubbling underneath the surface. There must be something to destroy the quaint perfection.
As far as I can tell, no, there isn't. Everyone was friendly and open; at least one person every day asked me where I was from and we had a discussion about how small the world is. (One nice lady, as she and her husband sat down to dinner, actually said to me, "You're not from 'round here, are you?" I didn't know people actually said that!) Everyone was kind. The pubs I went into were filled with regulars, people who've known each other for years, and while I was definitely the outsider, it wasn't antagonistic. People were curious, mostly. Curious why this little American girl was randomly there.
Sunday: train (and bus) travel up to Pickering.
I didn't know where I was going on the bus (with a train, they tell you or at least you have some semblance of the stops; but the bus didn't even have the scrolling "this is our next stop" thing, so I had to rely on asking people), but once I got over my initial panic at not knowing where I was, where I should be, what I should be doing--it was really awesome. I can understand the thrill of getting lost, of not knowing where you are. It's delicious.
Pickering is an adorable little town, with shops and stone cottages and historic pubs and a medieval church that rang an amazingly complex song while I was wandering around (5.00 on a Sunday evening). I found a used bookstore, a couple ice cream places and cafes, and a whole mess of pubs. The one I stopped in had a really good local cider, delicious sausages and mash, and a very nice couple who talked to me all through dinner.
Monday: North Yorkshire Moors Railway with steam trains, starting at 9.00 am and ending around 5-5.30 at my cute little b&b.
My plan sort of got knocked off kilter because we were hung up on a change at Grosmont, so I ended up stopping at a couple places I hadn't intended. For example, I stopped at Goathland (go-th-lend. Until I heard it, I wondered if it was goat-land, but alas, no.), where they filmed the Hogsmeade scenes in Harry Potter and the ITV series Heartbeat (which I only know because I watched 20 mins of Benedict Cumberbatch in an episode). Very idyllic. Tiny place, a pub, some shops, a tea room (where I stopped for Yorkshire cream tea) and an amazing view of the moors on all sides. Oh, and sheep. Sheep that wandered around as part of the human population. That was new for me.
Then later, I properly stopped in Grosmont. Another bookshop (didn't buy anything this time) and another pub and then finally up to Whitby. I had to ask for directions to my b&b, because I went the wrong way, and it is an absolutely adorable place. The owner was very nice. I went off to explore Whitby, a port town with medieval ruins high on a hill and the river Esk running through it. Ended up (surprise surprise) in a pub, which had very good Indian food.
Tuesday: Whitby and back down to London
I was treated to breakfast in bed around 8.45 (eggs, bacon, toast and coffee, so good) and had to check out by 10. Since my train didn't leave until 12.41 to Middlesbrough, I had a whole 2.5 hours in hand to wander Whitby. I paid a few pounds to leave my bag at the train station and then scooted up to the ruins of the Whitby abbey.
I love ruins, I really do. I often find them more interesting that whatever the building would have looked like in its prime. I like run-down things, things faded from grandeur into ruin. Ruins and dilapidated houses and gardens threatening mutiny with weeds and ivy. There is beauty in the damaged, the destroyed. But more than that, ruins tell us that even though the glory and the grandeur are gone, the pieces themselves still exist. They will go on, until nature finally wins in another five thousand years, or until humanity thinks they're obsolete and destroys them.
Whitby has gone on for over two thousand years and it will keep going. Like the ruins of its abbey, like the sea edging its way in, and like the moors that stretch into the fog and beyond--they all will continue. Change, yes, change is inevitable, but they will survive, they will exist, for ages and ages more.
After an hour or so of wandering around in the chilly, foggy ruins, I took a stroll through the town. Happened upon the Sherlock Holmes Coffee Shop and got a ham sandwich and a coffee to go. Ate that while I read a new book (not very good, but it's about a female archaeologist at the Whitby abbey ruins, so I had to buy it) and started the long journey back to London.
It was a very nice three days. Far too short to see everything (I was informed by a couple nice men on the train that I hadn't really seen England properly) and a lot of sitting on my butt staring as the moors passed me by, but there was no way to go wandering through them, especially carting my bag around. But it was absolutely gorgeous and gave me pages upon pages of description in my journal and I'm so glad I took the time to do it.
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