Like its soul sister cities and state: Portland OR, Austin TX, Boulder CO and the whole of Vermont, Whitby England asks you to keep ‘er weird. Of course, we knew none of this as we rolled through Yorkshire through cute little villages like Thirsk, Ryegate and Hutton-le-Hole and then up across the brilliantly purple-colored moors of North York Park. We found our hotel then parking, a task on a Friday evening with weekend weather forecast to not have pelting water flying down from the sky for most of it. The carnival rides were just getting set up, the funnel cake and candy floss pumping their odors out from carts. Neon lighted arcades were interspersed with ice cream shacks and, it seemed, the whole of Yorkshire had descended upon Whitby to catch some sunshine and celebrate summer.
Whitby is divided by the River Esk, across which a swinging drawbridge connects the hilltop with the Whitby Abbey and one part of the village from the other, while swinging open and shut to let in or out the considerable sailing ships in port. Whitby Abbey was founded by St. Hilda who traveled here in 657 AD to found an abbey on the clifftop, only to find it infested with snakes. After prayer didn’t clear the slithering ground, she obtained a whip, channeled God and cleared the snakes through a crack of the whip, whence the serpents were turned to stone. Hmmm… Weird.
Bram Stoker came to visit Whitby in 1890 and was inspired to include Whitby Abbey and the cemetery which lies in its shadow in his novel. When Dracula’s boat is shipwrecked off the coast of Whiby, the vampire transforms into a dog who escapes and runs up the 199 steps from town to the Abbey. Thus, Dracula’s linkage to Whitby is just yet another intance of the supernatural making Whitby weird.
We climbed the steps, in the footsteps of the Count, to Whitby Abbey (another English Heritage site, they’re practically paying us to come now) on a cloudy Saturday morning and were delighted to find a three-person troupe of actors performing their rendition of Dracula within the skeletal remains of the Abbey. I can’t quite remember ever seeing actors engaging children (and let’s be honest, the adults too) in the same way these three did as they told the tale and portrayed a myriad of characters for 90 spellbinding minutes. Not a soul on their phones and all ages rapt from start to conclusion, with Dracula’s death by a stake through the heart. After, we roamed around the grounds for some of the best views of the town, coastline and moors available.
We had, ironically, stumbled across a program with a feature on Whitby whilst in bed with a stomach bug in Bath last weekend and heard tell of the lemon buns at Botham’s. So, when we landed there for a sandwich at the recommendation of the jewelry shop owner where we got Melissa some Jet Black necklaces (a mineraloid derived from decomposed wood) we just had to try one. Worth the stop (and the calories), if you’re in town.
We also visited the Captain Cook Museum. Cook apprenticed here under the tutiledge of Captain John Walker, in whose home the museum lives. Aside from the cool map of Cook’s journeys around Antarctica and the incredible paintings and drawings done by one of Cook’s crew housed within, we didn’t find the museum worth the admission fee. A little steep for what you get. If you’re a huge Cook fan, go. Otherwise, save your pence.
Whitby has lots of legends and fables about strange happenings taking place here. When smuggling was the main trade of the town, thievery was punishable, somewhat ironically, by death. And so, the fate of one thief fell, but his cohorts used his corpse to make candles, through a lengthy and witchy ritual, which were placed in between the fingers when thieving was afoot. The thief would light the candle when entering a building he or she intended to loot casting a spell on its occupants to not awaken, rendering his thieving safe, without capture. Now, you can see the “Hand of Glory” at the Whitby museum, and decide for yourself. Weird? If it’s true, I’d say.
Our favorite legend of Whitby, however, was that of Rohilla. In 1914, the boat, a reconditioned hospital ship, was enroute to Dunkirk to treat the evacuated troops when violent storms sent it into the jagged rocks off the coast of Whitby. Attempts to rescue the captain and crew with lifeboats failed, the residents of Whitby formed a human chain to rescue all of the Rohilla’s inhabitants, including the captain, who left the vessel last, cap in hand, as you might expect. Sure the “weird” moniker attracts the goths and those inclined to interesting fashion (and I was shocked to see the number of canes and walkers per capita in such a hilly place), but these friendly Whitbians are the ones we met while on our stay, the affable, helpful ones. The ones who recognize what a beautiful little village they have with a stunning beach, and gorgeous skies as the sun sets and reflects on the Abbey, lighting up the clouds and sea with dusk. No thieves, vampires, serpents or witches, but maybe we just didn’t stay out late enough.
The Traveling Ridleys 
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