One year on from being ejected from the only pub that would feed us, with a touch of irony, the same place proved our saving grace on our first night of the 2022 visit to Whitby. Breakfast was booked – we were back in town.
Day One
This year’s crowd featured Fagin, landlord of The Scruffy. As we arrived to test Vitty’s Cottages new ten-berth home – “please don’t wreck it” pleaded Iain the owner – I’d spent the journey with godson Harry, soon to turn eighteen but going on forty.
After several false starts as his delirious parents shooed him out of the door desperate for a weekend free of teenage kicks and eyeing a crate of wine, we were off.
Searching for something to listen to he was “humbled” – teenage speak – to discover several bands I had no idea existed on my phone. Soon he was showing me the “lawnmower” dance; I vowed to never try it in public.
I then had the inside track on his trip to Leeds Fest and how to guarantee the best shit in the woods; there was nothing the kid did not know. How had he grown up so fast?
DJ Harry was dressed in trendy pyjamas that probably cost a second mortgage. Eventually, he gave in to the inevitable Springsteen onslaught as the stunning coastline came into sight.
By the time we’d arrived, Big Al had secured the prime room with a view largely because nobody else, bar Uncle Andy, could contemplate a prime view of Big Al for three days.
The accommodation is marvellous and if you ever fancy booking any of the ten Vitty’s cottages mention The Trumpit to Iain – commercial break over.
DJ had taken one for the team to avoid any possibility of a raffle to avoid spooning. Set up on a camp bed, adjacent to the kitchen, giant tv and a bottle of whisky, he was nobody’s fool.
After a few early beers and a “Chinky” we settled in as DJ eyed easy pickings. Soon it was time for bed and Uncle Andy placed his ear defenders over his smooth head and made his way to his cell. Guantanamo Bay would seem like Club 18-30 come Monday.
Tomorrow we had a gentle walk along part of the Cleveland Way then back into Whitby minus Big Al and Uncle Andy who would be taking their own gentle stroll to The Ship Inn, if they ever woke up.
Somehow the climb up the steps to the famous Abbey without the big man wheezing and pleading to be shot, would not be the same.
As we drifted off one by one, DJ sniffed the whiff of freedom as I gave him my sternest godfather talk. “Use the toilet…no selfies shitting on the beach!”
Day Two
I woke to find a view of Whitby Town FC’s floodlights with the North Yorkshire moors in the background. Across the hallway, something sounded like a bear, doubtless oblivious to the ocean views.
An early search for coffee revealed a fancy tap that I had no idea how to work without risking a skin graft and a flashy Gusto machine. What had kettles done to offend a civilised man?
Luckily, we had resident tech guru Five Pints in the house and the coffee flowed.
Despite a hearty meal, DJ’s mum’s traditional going away hamper had been obliterated overnight as had a bottle of Jura. This time next year he would be at university; lap it up I told myself, these are the golden days.
He was feasting on an early breakfast of Liquorice Allsorts as his sickly mum made her first check-up call of the trip. Feigning flu – the Cabernet Sauvignon 22 strain – she made me vow to keep him under a strict lead. The truth would wait.
Outside the sun gently began to rise and it was time to check the house for the rest of the inhabitants.
Fagin had bought a new dog which was apparently tax deductible as it classed as a guard dog for The Scruffy, which had needed one since a purge of elderly barmaids several months ago.
The large breakfast bar soon became the focal point of the morning as Five Pints offered tutorials on the dreaded tap. After practising his putting in his room, golf-nut Patch had noticed an administrative oversight.
Our planned walk was eight, not six miles; throw in a stretch to the start – all uphill – and suddenly sleeping in, even in the bear pit, seemed a good option. Upstairs, the room with a view rumbled on oblivious.
Having emailed him for eight months with instructions on self-preservation – what to do when we left him alone – when we left Big Al on the doorstep as we headed off – it was emotional.
DJ had hidden the last of the sausage rolls around the house which was akin to leaving a blindfolded hungry bear in a honey trap.
We set off in bright sunshine and, as ever, we got lost, much to the amusement of a local farmer. Fagin was cursing at the back along the lines of “should’ve got the Nob Eds to sponsor me”.
Unerringly, we found a pub; sometimes you just have to believe in destiny.
Along the way our walk had gone viral as two lively-looking young ladies – Salska and Trishka – had been following our every step.
They were on a cultural tour of Amsterdam sampling the local confectionery and wines; we were very grateful for their encouragement from across the ocean.
Eventually, we rolled back into a bustling Whitby in search of the cakes that our European stalkers had so obviously enjoyed.
With an inevitability as predictable as the sun rising, we bumped into Big Al and Uncle Andy in The Ship. A rather lively – extremely pissed – Geordie girl somehow fixated on Five Pints sat drinking his beer innocently.
“Way eye yous I may be rough but yous’ll always be ginger!” And then she wandered off with a pint of fruit cider, whisky chaser and a pair of white shorts so short they were last worn in the 1970 World Cup.
It was one of those impromptu afternoons that could well have gone on and on had Pizza West not been booked for later.
Our evening destination was a repeat of last year. Pizza West was excellent again, a former municipal building converted into a vibrant venue.
As ever we turned up in stages, the stragglers delayed by a fifteen-minute “pit-stop” by the big man. Having been out with him most of the afternoon, all a glassy-eyed Five Pints could utter was “best day I’ve had in ages!”
Politics naturally came into the conversation with yet another sacking of a government groper. Reflecting on this Leapy made a point. “If they’d outlawed a fumble in the dark when I was a lad I’d have had no chance!”
Having been out most of the day there was no appetite to seek out disco fever and it was unanimous that we headed back to Birds Eye View, especially as DJ had been persuaded to release the secret stash of sausage rolls.
DJ had upped the central heating to greenhouse levels; Whitby Police had cause to believe a cannabis farm had been established.
Day Three
The benign weather enjoyed the previous day had changed to a fresh, gusty wind as the 2022 golf challenge loomed. Reigning champion Uncle Andy was still to surface; needless to say, the teenage door remained firmly shut too.
Finally, we convened at the breakfast table only to find a debate on Scottish independence. We had a smart tv and six clueless men: cometh the hour, cometh the teenager.
In a few clicks of a finger, we were into a whole world of choice and the cranky wee Krankie was gone.
After breakfast at the aptly named Harry’s Bar we arrived back to find the big man dressed for golf watching a fifty-year-old episode of Star Trek. Captain Kirk and Spock were being attacked by a domestic cat; small wonder our childhoods were confused.
It was on the road to the golf “course” – a field with a few mown bits – and steely determination all around. The competition was fierce and Patch lodged several protests about Uncle Andy’s liberal interpretation of the laws taking several shots from the paddling pool.
DJ had what is known as a mare and will not be solving golf’s ageing demographic anytime soon. In a desperate attempt to stave off the pub, Patch instigated another round.
Later I found the guys strangely in a pub with Sky Sports sucking phallic rock.
World peace was under threat yet this seemed lost on our contingent fixated on sugar penises.
Eventually, Patch dragged Five Pints for one more beer – and several whiskies – knowing that his golf the following day would not be affected having been smashed at pitch and putt. The prized clubs would be on eBay later in the week.
It had been another brilliant weekend as we all settled down to watch Titanic. Would DJ be back again? Would Big Al’s liver survive another year? Would Patch switch to crown green bowls?
Day Four
As Fagin and Uncle Andy made a dawn escape back to reality, Five Pints finally came in through the door having secured one final shot of the beautiful coastline, sleeping on the beach all night.
Across the landing, the reassuring rumble in the jungle continued as the rest of Whitby woke to another beautiful day. It had been the best of weekends.
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