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Published: April 30th 2017
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I stand and gaze over the harbour from the East Cliff. A blue sky is dotted with fluffy white clouds. The air is clear and the view stretches to Sandsend and the cliffs at Kettleness. The tide is out. The whitecap waves contrast with the sea. Summer has started again, after the sleet and hail earlier in the week. I pay my respects to my Dad. He is also watching out over the harbour from a spot a few yards away. Well, he is metaphorically speaking. This is his patch. The yards below, where he would be dispatched to his Grans. The Abbey behind me, where he would be sent to play in the grounds watched over by his Uncle. In the days before English Heritage, his Uncle was the splendidly titled custodian of the place. There is little to see today. The fishing boats are either all out at sea making up for lost time after the earlier bad weather or tied up at Dock End. The lifeboat is moored at the Fish Quay opposite. There are only a few people around for mid-morning Friday. A bus drops a cargo of daytrippers from Pudsey at the Abbey, but only a
handful of people wander the graveyard at St Marys. It would have been very different last weekend. It was Goth weekend and this is one of the favourite places for the almost professional shoot. I think my Dad would approve of developments on the lane just behind the Abbey. The new Whitby Brewery & Micropub. The makers of Abbey Blonde - I strongly recommend it - and ales with real Whitby character - Jet Black and Black Death Gothic Stout! Another welcome addition to the world of real ale. Whether my Dad does approve of course, I will not know. As Dylan would say, the answer is blowin' in the wind.
We set off down the 199 Steps into town. The red pantiles of Henrietta Street glow in the sun. The seagulls balance precariously on the chimney pots, poised to swoop on an unsuspecting tourist with his fish and chips. We descend on to the harbourside by the Tate Hill pier. It is still remarkably quiet. The town is in a state of almost lockdown. Road closures. No waiting cones. Barriers. The town is awaiting the arrival of the Le Tour De Yorkshire. The cycling revolution in the north
of England goes on. The event goes from strength to strength after the enthusiasm created by the English stages of the Tour De France in 2014. The warm sunshine has moved some of the cafes outdoors. It is almost continental. We settle outside the Monks Haven for a flat white. An A board nearby advertises a Whitby Ghost Walk. A group of pensioners note that the Black Horse does not welcome groups. I think the statement would not apply to them, although I am not sure they realised that. We meet Charlie the Cockapoo, who was on his best exemplary behaviour.
We move on across the Swing Bridge on the west side of the harbour. The giant inflatable polar bear, a long time resident on the roof of Holland & Barrett, watches on. We wander up Flowergate, passing the Sutcliffe Gallery. The Victorian photographer immortalised the old Whitby world in sepia, albeit in mostly stage managed scenes. My great grandmother features on a number. The clock over what was Seaton, Gray, Bell & Bagshawes looks splendid in the sun. I always remember going in there expecting to see legal documents being handwritten in ink with a quill.
...... and that was in the mid 1980s. The grand mansions at the top of Flowergate still draw the eye. Redbrick Georgian grandeur, watching out over the top of the harbour. We walk through Pannett Park. Robert Pannett bought the land in 1902 to avoid it being developed. The steep slopes became a landscaped parkland and home to the Whitby Gallery and Archives. In recent years, I have spent many hours searching the merchant navy shipping logs in search of my forefathers voyages to the far flung corners of the earth. In many respects, it possibly explains my own desire to constantly explore. Alas, these days it is often a bit closer to home. I stop on Bagdale to take a photograph of the home of great mariner, William Scoresby. Artic explorer, whaler and latterly a Reverend. The inventor of the crows nest. He set sail for the North West Passage, had parts of Greenland named after him and eventually settled for the warmer climates of Torquay.
The Whitby Tourist Infornation Centre opposite the rail station is apparentlying moving. A Michelin star chef is coming to town. The rise in trendy, overpriced food businesses in such as
Padstow has clearly not gone unnoticed in a corner of North Yorkshire. The progress of Le Tour de Yorkshire is available on a big screen by Dock End. A couple of ladies that lunch were eating a picnic and consuming a bottle of wine, whilst studying the progress of the race. It had started only 20 minutes ago and they already headed through Driffield. The numbers watching the race on the screenew was low. A much larger gathering was to be found across at the Big Angel. It is now a Wetherspoons. The sun seats were fully occupied. Refreshments in hand. We walked back across the Swing Bridge. Captain Cook Welcomes Le Tour de Yorkshire. A huge banner graced the gable end of the Captain Cook Museum at the corner of Grape Lane. I would not be aware of the visitor numbers to the museum, but the greatest mariner associated with Whitby never seems to draw that much of a crowd. I was tempted - as I always am - to nip into Sarahs for a sit down fish not chips. Forget The Magpie or Trenches, we always head here. The yachts are moored up in the upper harbour and
because of the road closure, a number of businesses have shut up for a few hours. The drinkers are enjoying the sun outside the Middle Earth Tavern. The harbour dredger and fisheries protection vessel are tied up on the far side. The last shipyard in Whitby is looking very industrious. A Romanian lorry driver is trying desperately to drop his cargo there before he becomes consumed by road racing cyclists. A cycling super fan is establishing his bunting and flag at the bottom of Green Lane. We cut back across the fields towards Hawsker to wait for the race at my uncle's place.
The Cote De Highgate .....climb in other words........ coming up from Green Lane sorts out the riders as they head towards Scarborough and the last big test at Robin Hood Bay. The Scarborough or Bust banner is displayed again this year. Bras hang from the display. We watch the race on TV, before venturing outside as they sweep down from the moors towards Sleights and Ruswarp. The TV helicopter is visible in the distance. I settle into my spot, so as to get the Abbey in the background as they come up the hill. The caravan
of support vehicles follows through after a line of police motorcyclists. Blue lights flash as they race up the he climb. A breakaway group leads the race. They might have been freewheelin' down past The Plough in Sleights, but they aren't here. The main peleton follows a few seconds behind. They are grouped tightly, occupying the full roads width. I move my feet off the tarmac edge to avoid a catastrophy. I shoot off 60 or 70 frames. There is only 1 straggler this year. In 2 minutes, it is all over. Well for another year!
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Rainyb
Lorraine Brecht
Good shot! Well composed!!