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Published: November 8th 2016
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The Monk’s Haven was packed. A small dog sat waiting patiently for the possibility of a small crumb of toasted teacake. She knew the café owners would often provide a small piece of cut sausage for hungry dogs, so this would tide her over until the main food possibly came her way. The table opposite remarked at her black cape with a red collar. It was very Dracula, but in keeping with the mood of the weekend. The Whitby Goth Weekend was in full swing. The majority of the customers were dressed in a spectacular array of outfits. A combination of a pure goth and Victoriana. The ladies and indeed the gentleman mostly with heavily made up faces. A small shitzu also sat patiently for his treat, splendidly attired in his dog coat tuxedo. He was a veteran of goth weekends.
The customers were taking a break from the weather. After the balmy Halloween temperatures, things had taken a turn for the worst. A chill wind was blowing from the northerly direction. The morning had been full of intermittent wintery showers pushing inland. The sea looked fierce. The earlier dog walk on Runswick Bay sands had been cut short by
a combination of heavy rain and sand that has now almost disappeared into a treacle like mixture with the slow erosion of the boulder clay cliffs. The parking charges had fortunately been suspended for winter.
We headed back outside to capture some photographs of the characters. The numbers were apparently well down, after a clash of dates with the Bram Stoker Film Festival. There had been a split in the organising committee and a competition for the prestigious Halloween weekend date. The goths had lost. A weekend reveller bemoaned the lack of stalls, as many had pencilled in the usual date and now had other commitments elsewhere. She re-arranged her purple wig – too loose, she explained – and updated us on the changing times of the gathering. The Elf & Safety people had gone mad lately and exception had been taken to the passion for carrying fake weapons as part of some of the seafaring pirate outfits. A fake pistol can apparently be seen as a risk, although no rules and restrictions were in place to prevent a couple of parrots being used as accessories. Dogs in capes and now parrots with jackets on! Whatever next.
The
outfits were wide and varied. We were introduced to the world of steam punks. The look was a combination of Victoriana, basques and others dressed in military uniforms. A common denominator was the flying glasses or goggles. A top hat was good, a bowler less so. The movement also favoured industrial parts – clock parts used as decoration on hats and body. I have just read an article that suggested many true goths had now abandoned the festivities, bemoaning the fact that it had turned into one big fancy dress parade. In some ways, I could see the point – but there was no harm in self- expression and everybody was just having fun and showing off their look. The musical headliners at the Spa over the weekend had featured such as Heaven 17, Sigue Sigue Sputnik Electronic and The Mission, so there was something for everybody.
There were a number of serious cameras out on Church Street. A number undoubtedly in the hands of professionals, who were looking for the serious shot. I guess they would have been up at St Marys or the Abbey doing professional shoots in the early morning light or at dusk. A transvestite
wandered past with a Leica. I wasn’t sure whether this was part of the costume. The entrance to the old Whitby Yards – small alleys with overcrowded cottages, now turned into expensive holiday lets – were being used as locations. Goths, steampunks or whatever loitered at the entrances, encouraging would be snappers to “take” their look. A wedding dress look, a girl with white antlers and some sophisticated top hats. A plantinum blonde showed off her look at the entrance to Arguments Yard. She must have been completed nithered in her limited attire. The tee shirt proclaimed a “Ride to Hell”. The man dressed as a dalek had possibly not read the script. It was all very Steve Strange. The new, New Romantics in a way. I wonder what my Great Gran would have thought of all this on her doorstep.
Crystal the small dog revelled in comments on her cape. She loved the attention. Fortified by her earlier sausage sample, she braved the cold and the crowds before finding the prospect of too many feet near her a bit troubling. We turned towards the 199 steps by Tate Hill and the wind rushed down Henrietta Street
into our face. An about turn was in order. A new discovery was located on Grape Lane. The Green Dragon beer shop – purveyors of fine bottled Yorkshire Ales, including those from the Whitby Brewery. We settled for a Jet Black and an Abbey Blonde – not the one in the entrance to Arguments Yard. A stuffed antelope bizarrely gazed down Bridge Street from a first floor window on the Corner of Grape Lane. A number of visitors in the more exotic headgear were struggling to keep the said items in their possession, as they crossed the swing bridge. A keen wind blew down the harbour. The fishing boats were all tied up away from the fish quay. They had obviously seen the weather forecast.
We climbed Flowergate in the direction of the car. The resident parking arrangements, designed to keep cars out of town and in favour of the much criticised Park N Ride up near Cross Buts, has the desired effect to a degree. However to those that know their way around, it just means the need to hunt out the more out of the way places. The Other Half nipped in the antique market
in search of more jewellery. Skinner Street was suffering from an icy blast of wind, so we carried on going. A tannoy announcer could be heard in the distance from the Turnbull Ground. Football match? I confidently advised the Other Half that Whitby Town had been at home yesterday. How wrong can you be? Real Gothic were playing a charity match.
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Rainyb
Lorraine Brecht
My fav!