“And the big man joined the band.”
Bruce Springsteen
As if by magic, within ten minutes of Big Al lumbering across the bridge in Whitby in his half-bent preacher style, we were in a pub. Knock, and it shall be opened to you said Matthew (7.7) – pub doors duly did.
Yet to book his return journey, Leapy attempted to upskill him in terms of the Trainline app; it was like a senior citizens IT class as the rest of us watched on convinced he would be hitch-hiking home or Leapy would end up in the harbour.
Big Al jabbed furiously at his smartphone as if it had giant buttons like ten pence pieces. I wondered if he expected it to spew out his train tickets as well.
We’d left our latest base, The White Horse & Griffin, happy in the knowledge it was dog friendly as Uncle Andy had loaded up on treats.
Landing at The Ship Inn, this seemed to encourage a mass exodus; it remained a funny old world. Together in a corner of this little pub, the stories flowed as effortlessly as the sea outside.
With a man who would make a combination of the most extreme elements of Boris and Donald look like a snowflake, Big Al, was flowing too. The “flog ’em and hang ’em” mob were back in town.
Within an hour we had plunged to the depths of all possible conversational topics searching the web for When Gary Lineker Pooed On A Pitch to Rolf Harris Applies To Be A Teacher. Variety truly is the spice of life.
All this and waking to Piers Morgan, my senses had truly been assaulted this week.
Eventually, food called and we found a place called Moutreys which was stylish; so we dragged it down a peg or two. The food was excellent though and this was one to be sought out again.
Having been out several hours the agreed consensus was that early finishes were a very bad idea so we agreed by a majority to a minimum standard of twelve miles per day in future; otherwise our trips would be a monumental pub crawl.
Big Al asked for another referendum and a few pit stops as a backstop. With this, I retired to a pot of tea, Grand Designs and my sleeping mask.
Morning came and Five Pints and I watched the local news for any stories about tragic local suicides and a police hunt for five unknown witnesses in hiking gear. Happy we were off the hook breakfast called.
It was the start of Patch’s fiftieth year and maybe his last; we had almost two hundred steps awaiting us.
“**** me nobody told me that!” said Big Al “Is there a chair lift?” I was tempted to suggest there was a boat lift in the harbour but did not fancy wearing my cereal.
Patch looked paler than normal after another night on the whisky with Leapy, who was celebrating his last days of freedom in the knowledge that by the time he got home, Mrs Lee would have read every episode of every trip.
The birthday boy asked the young waitress if there was a ghost, claiming that his bed had been rocking in the night. She was quite understanding but said that the only haunted room was that which Big Al and Uncle Andy were in.
I reckoned the ghost took a look inside, cast an eye on the big man, heard the noise and took a night off.
The morning route out of Whitby to Robin Hood’s Bay was by far the most scenic, if you discounted the sight of Big Al’s rear end, which I did by yomping on with Uncle Andy.
The weather was gorgeous too and, with the little mans legs pumping like well oiled pistons we made rapid progress.
“I’m moving quicker because I’ve treated me’self to a fresh pair of undies” he declared. I asked how old the others were: “Sunday!”
Eventually we arrived at Robin Hood’s Bay, so upmarket they charge 40p a tinkle. When I returned I found an old man I recognised sat on a bench nearby.
After tea and cake we strode at a furious lick along the beach awaiting one more big climb. Unfortunately, Leapy chose the wrong one.
As we began to negate the recent punishing ascent with a steep climb down to the sands again, there was considerable grumbling in the background.
Eventually, we reached the summit once again and finally sacked Leapy as navigator.
What started off as a modest jaunt seemed to go on forever. The Ravenscar Hotel was there for all to see in the distance, it just never seemed to get any closer.
Eventually, we almost crawled up the driveway. The staff took one look at us and quickly advised us that there was segregated dining. As not even Leapy’s expansive wardrobe included long trousers and a shirt, it looked like Aldi down the road.
The jacuzzi called.
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