By the time I get to Whitby on Friday night, my parents, who arrived the day before, have a new obsession.

‘Look at this!’ my mother says, ushering me into the kitchen of our rented cottage and pointing to a treacly cake sitting in the middle of the table. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?!’ ‘Beautiful,’ I agree, clocking a number of paper bags lined up along the sideboard which bear the same blue and white branding.

‘There were biscuits too,’ Mum says with a touch of smugness, ‘but we’ve already eaten them.’ My parents have discovered the glories of Botham’s Bakery. In fact, Botham’s, which turned out to be just around the corner from our rented house (meaning that it was hard to go out or come back without buying cakes) was just one of several unexpected and wonderful discoveries we made during a weekend in Whitby this past November.

The wonders of Botham’s Bakery on Skinner Street!

Just up the north-east coast from Scarborough, Whitby is an hour’s drive across the moors from York which means that it’s close enough to get to easily by car and just far enough away that I never visit. So when my parents suggested a weekend by the seaside for my birthday as a gift this year, I knew exactly where I wanted to go.

Whitby’s history is eclectic; it’s part of a stretch of the north-east coast known as the ‘Dinosaur Coast,’ and fossils and pre-historic remains have been found in the rock strata of the town’s coastline. In the seventh century, St. Hilda of Whitby presided over a community of monks and nuns here, which led to the construction of the iconic Gothic structure of Whitby Abbey, the ruins of which still remain. Whitby was a hub of fishing and whaling from medieval times and an important site for shipbuilding, particularly in the eighteenth century. The black gemstone jet was mined here by the Romans and again by the Victorians; jet production became a thriving industry in the nineteenth-century as the stone became fashionable, being worn especially by Queen Victoria. Whitby also has a long literary history; the abbey was the home of Caedmon, the first recognised English poet and the town is the setting for novels by A.S. Byatt, Elizabeth Gaskell and Robin Jarvis, as well as Bram Stoker’s ‘Dracula,’ which incorporates aspects of Whitby’s folklore (fun fact!)

We stay in an adorable, wonky cottage just off Skinner Street where three floors are connected by a steep spiral staircase. The house feels like something out of a fairytale and is decorated with beach-hut wallpaper and prints of old sailing ships. I love the basement kitchen the best; a wide, cosy room with beams running across the ceiling. It’s furnished with a huge kitchen table which is perfect for lounging around and plotting at with cups of tea. We barely use the first floor sitting room.

On Friday night, we squeeze into the bar of the Moon and Sixpence on Marine Parade for a beer beneath all sorts of faux-foliage hanging from the ceiling, before wandering along the harbour. It’s a quiet night, with strips of neon light reflected in the water from the other side of the bay and the dark bulk of the East cliff rising above it, topped by the ruined abbey. We skirt the fish market and a row of shuttered kiosks, including one which advertises the services of a medium, which seems very appropriate for spooky Whitby. Then it’s home for a quiche and curd tart (and I don’t even need to tell you where we procured those!)

We all take a while to get going on Saturday morning. In my case, it’s because I’ve woken up in a warm bed to the sound of rain and wind against the window panes and the cries of seagulls. If there are cosier sounds to hear first thing, I haven’t found them yet and they were not conducive to getting up. In my mum’s case, it’s because she’s popped out for a swim at the leisure centre. She arrives ten minutes before the pool, to the surprise of the lifeguards.

‘But, no-one ever gets here before eight-thirty,’ they tell her, mystified. They have underestimated my mother’s enthusiasm when it comes to a morning swim.

Plaque to Wiliam Scoresby outside 13, Bagdale and to the right, the house itself.

When we finally leave the house, we take the road which leads out of town and climb the hill to Whitby Museum. Large Victorian houses line the street, distant behind tall hedgerows or railings. I find a blue plaque to William Scoresby, Arctic Explorer, Whaler and Inventor of the Crow’s Nest. He’s a partial inspiration for Lee Scoresby in Philip Pullman’s ‘His Dark Materials,’ and so I’m excited at the discovery, being a big fan of the books.

Whitby Museum, located in Pannett Park, is a treasure trove of things and stories. Essentially, it’s two large rooms and everywhere you turn, fascinating objects and displays tell the story of the town’s past in thematic sections. Reassembled, fossilized reptile skeletons clamber up the wall in the corner about Whitby’s geology and Jurassic coast. Carved stone heads from Whitby Abbey peep out from their shelves, lined up between between fragments of stained glass and reconstructed models of the architecture. We drop fifty-pence into a machine from the 1920s to watch an automated scene of jet being worked on a production line. Figureheads from long retired boats, looking gaudy and uncomfortable at being inside and on land, watch over models of ships and cases full of their logs. Glass cabinets contain a myriad of objects, from old children’s toys to embroidery samplers and, of course, the famous Hand of Glory, a wonderfully grisly mummified hand, reportedly cut down from a hanged corpse and then used by burglars to keep the family within the house they were targeting asleep whilst they took what they fancied. The museum is an amazing jumble of things and I hope it never changes. In fact, we might have startled a docent as we were leaving by telling her how much we loved it as it is.

We leave the Museum and go back into town for soup and a much needed drying off. We almost take out a gentleman with our umbrella. Ducking, he shouts after us ‘it’s not even raining.’ The soggy state of my bobble hat would beg to differ, I think. Sorry, sir.

After lunch, we try to visit the Captain Cook Museum, (Captain James Cook was an apprentice seaman in Whitby) but the staff are lifting boards over the windows as we approach and so we go to the Whitby Jet Museum instead (more of which in another post). For a tiny museum, it’s informative and intriguing, with a wide range of jet objects on display (I especially like the intricate doll’s house furniture) and we linger in the rooms for a while. The Museum shares its space with a restaurant and both are housed in the former Wesleyan Chapel. Beautiful original features remain - art deco stained glass is set into the windows and doors, ochre and green tiles line the walls and the original 1901 radiators still heat the building. Above the bar are the long pipes of the chapel organ (not sure what Wesley would make of that!) The museum is free and worth a look as much for the beautiful interior as the exhibition.

Tiles and glass from the interior of the 1901 Wesleyan Chapel.

We go and look at the sea after that. It’s raining, quiet and grey. November suits Whitby, I think; Bridlington in the winter looks a bit lost - as if the town is waiting for summer to return. Whitby feels comfortable in winter, as if it’s relaxing into its proper season The empty beach, far off sepia waves and misty horizon lend the town an aura of slightly gothic mystery which seems to suit it (or perhaps I’m just picking up on its literary heritage!)

Whitby Harbour, at the mouth of the River Esk.

It’s STILL raining. So we go home for a Botham’s croissant and a nap. We venture out again only for fish and chips at a nearby pub, huffing and puffing our way home up the steep streets of the town afterwards (So would you, if you’d just eaten your body weight in Yorkshire pudding and veggie sausages….)

On Sunday, we head out of the house early and go for a walk on the beach below West cliff, a wide stretch of flat sand. The day is silvery but there’s no rain and the tide is gradually coming in (I think!). Waiting for my dad to bring the car round, I see a man dressed as Captain America and another as Spiderman, both heading into Whitby Pavilion, the Victorian building set above the beach. I think nothing of it. For some reason, I’m not surprised to see comic book heroes here in this town with its long history of stories.

On the beach, waves are rising in the grey - green sea and there’s a cheerful, festive atmosphere. Dogs race across the sand after tennis balls, everyone has pink cheeks and by the side of the pier which divides the beach from the harbour, a group of children are doing football drills around a set of plastic cones. I stand and let the lacy surf wash around my boots and think of absolutely nothing, feeling content, staring out to sea. Two men in wetsuits come down the beach and before I know it, I can count thirteen heads, bobbing in the water – the glossy head coverings of their wetsuits making them look like seals. They are having, if you’ll excuse the marine pun, a whale of a time in there.

East Cliff, Whitby Abbey and the East Pier lighthouse from the end of the West Pier.

We climb up to the West pier and walk past the lighthouse and right out to the end of the pier extension, where you can see the water in the gaps between the wooden boards of the raised walkway. There’s nothing beyond you here but the north sea and the odd, distant boat bobbing on the horizon. Nothing except water all the way to Denmark now, I think. I’m brought down to earth from my romanticizing by the realization that the constant waves below the pier are making me feel a bit sick. We’re past the surfers, the beach and the headland and it’s dizzying to be this far out.

Whitby’s West Pier lighthouse and Pier extension.

After this, it’s just time for a latte and some dog-watching at Clara’s, by the Captain Cook Memorial before we set off for home. Popping into Whitby Pavilion for a wee, we realise it’s Whitby Comic-Con weekend, which explains Captain America. The convention is packed and everyone seems to be having a wonderful time. I see two fully grown Merry’s from ‘Brave,’ take a picture together, giggle and then hug, which is extremely lovely. Then we’re off, back across the moors towards home. I vow not to leave it so long before my next visit, even if it’s just to gaze out to sea, revisit the gruesome hand and stock up on Botham’s curd tart!