[Whitby to Robin Hood's Bay along the Cleveland Way]
Does it? Yesterday, Fortune favoured the ill-informed, lazy, disorganized yet stubborn. I’m inclined to think Fortune mainly favours the fortunate.
Rach and I decided to walk from Whitby to Robin Hood’s bay. This meant almost zero planning since it was the exact same walk I’d done with friends in July. Plan A was to drive to Robin Hood’s Bay, get a bus to Whitby, then walk the 6 mile clifftop path back again.
A bit of research on a few of the country’s many diabolical transport sites showed that buses ran evey 2 hours, so I selected the 10:48 bus. Google maps showed a 1:26 drive giving us a comfy 9 a.m. getaway. We set a departure time of 8:30 to allow for slippage, and went to bed.
Next morning we watched 8:00, 8:30, 9:00, 9:30 go sailing by. I had a secret plan B, which was to drive to Whitby, walk, then Bus back. By the time we set off we were on schedule to be one and a half hours late, so we went back to plan A, but getting the 12:48 bus from RHB.
Moments into the journey we hit near-stationary traffic. Rachael got her introduction to advanced grumpy-holidaymaker driving, dealing with sudden cuttings-up and people trying creative interpretations of the road markings.
We arrived at RHB at about 12:42, a three minute walk from the bus stop, but without change for the pay and display. Ten minutes later, we were faced with a missed bus, but the happy information that the next was only in one hour, not the two we expected.
What does a Taurean do when faced with such adversity? He Lunches, of course! A cheese toastie and pretty-though-mean salad bought from a pretty-though-mean looking young till operator, lunch was interrupted by a shower that turned rapidly into a downpour as we hastened for the cover of the formica’d interior. As the rain and wind battered the cafe, we changed plans several times, most involving fish and chips, crazy golf, and a notable absence of clifftop walks.
The rain passed, and my resolve returned. Rachael was reluctant to walk and risk returning to civilization a drowned and dishevelled specimen. I was more reluctant not to walk, and to return home a defeated less-than man.
We took the bus to Whitby on the pretence that we would have a nice cream tea and see how we felt. I think we both knew but did not acknowledge that the walk was inevitable now. At the foot of the abbey steps, the last point where scones could be got before miles of semi-wild coastline, we tucked into peppermint tea and the heavens opened once more. The downpour was fierce and sudden, and too brief for anyone to reach cover. Drenched, chilled tourists shuffled to the bottom of the Abbey steps as the bright warm sun mocked.
Glancing windward, and judging the threat of further rain to be minor, we set off. (The Route). And didn’t get rained on! Somehow.
Probably highlight of the trip was a simple case of a lost word resulting in my actual collapsing with laughter and ending up lying on the grass clutching my sides with Rachael crying with laughter nearby. I haven’t laughed like that probably ever.
When we made it into Robin Hood’s Bay (on a Sunday at about 6pm) we realised that a cash machine would have been a good idea. Unimpressed with the choices in the town, we headed off in the car and found a reasonably good pub for dinner before heading back to a well-earned doing of nothing much.