From Quayside to Skinner Street (a Whitby adventure)

A second x-ray at Lincoln Hospital confirmed my foot was healing nicely, so we decided to make another visit to our caravan. The weather was mixed but mostly kind; the rain mainly only visited overnight. Here are journal entries written while we were there. 

I was woken at 4:30 a.m. by gentle precipitation on the skylights of the caravan. It wasn’t thundering down - its tip-tap rhythm was so soporific I’m not sure how it had roused me. I quickly drifted back to dreamland. 

A few hours later, the rain had picked up a bit. I told him about the tip-tapping overnight but MTM said it sounded more like the local wildlife were having a barn dance on the roof! When a gusty wind joined in, it turned into the soap cycle of a full-on car wash! But inside our little bolt-hole, we felt warm, dry, and cosy. I love it here. 

After the drama of the recent moorland fires, it seemed only fair to let the rain soothe the damage. As the tide went out, the sun made a welcome appearance and the rain dissipated. 

I’m more mobile now and can manage short walks on firm, even surfaces. I’m off the crutches, my injured foot can bear weight, and I’m just using a walking stick for support. Bumpy footpaths or sandy beaches were off-limits for this visit — after all, I’m still wearing my “Darth Vader” boot. 

I did manage one outing into Whitby, though it had to be very carefully planned. We parked close to the harbour, knowing the Fish Box wasn’t far for lunch. Sitting outside, we listened to the chatter and bustle of the quayside — a lovely way to feel part of the town without too much effort. 

The main aim of the day was to reach Holman’s Bookshop, which has a great selection of stationery. I needed some squared paper for crochet design ideas I wanted to sketch while still fresh in my mind. 

It was relatively quiet for Whitby, which I appreciated. On previous visits, the town had occasionally felt oppressive when crowded. On a late September Monday, though, it was pleasant and easy to move through the streets. People were about, but not uncomfortably packed. 

It seemed to take an age to climb (and later descend) the steep slope of Flowergate. The tall buildings on either side of the narrowest section made it feel like a secret passage to the upper town. The cobbles underfoot were mercifully even, giving me time to appreciate the small independent shops, galleries, bakeries, and quirky fudge or Whitby jet stores — far more “local” in feel than the harbour front which is dominated by the Co-op and some new building works. 

By the time we turned onto Skinner Street, the walk had flattened out. Clinging to MTM’s arm, he joked that our slow progress reminded him of walking with his mum when she was in her eighties. It gave me a fresh perspective on the challenges faced by people with mobility restrictions — and gratitude that mine are temporary. 

Inevitably we spent more time in the car than we would usually.

The burnt moorland was sad to see, but nature has already begun her slow regenerative work. 

MTM made his escape from my restrictions for a couple of solo walks. The footpath we had walked a few short weeks before only re-opened to the public on the 28th September. 

I stayed behind in the caravan awning, happily crocheting for a few hours and listening to Bold as Love by Gwyneth Jones — an almost dystopian near-future novel where rock stars rule and violent, armed eco-warriors are roaming England. Scotland, Wales and Ireland have all been left to their own devices. 

The first thing MTM set out to find was the little Christmas tree I’d been fretting over. 

I was ridiculously happy to hear it had survived, despite one of the burnt areas coming perilously close.

Many trees and shrubs were less fortunate. 

 

The footpath, with its hard-trodden surface, had in places helped contain the flames’ spread. 

This boardwalk spans a boggy area. When we walked over it before the fire, we startled a striped lizard basking in the sun. It flitted out of sight too fast for a photograph, but remains a precious memory 

I hope the little lizard is okay after the fire burned most of his home away. 

By the time we packed up for the journey back to the East Midlands, I felt quietly triumphant. I’d survived Flowergate (albeit slowly, with MTM’s arm for support), admired the moor’s slow recovery, and even found time to lose myself in crochet and audiobooks. MTM had his solo adventures, I had mine, and our little Christmas tree stood resolute against all odds. It was a gentle reminder that, like the moor, life mends itself — one cobble, one stitch, one careful step at a time

  

Sneaton Church and the Stones That Tell Stories

My blogger friend Jean, over at A Very Grand Pressigny recently shared her wanderings through some of Brittany's towns and villages. Her posting stirred a memory of my own: a visit last month to Sneaton, a village perched just two miles south of Whitby, where stone, sea, and legend entwine. 

From the churchyard, the view sweeps down to the coast, Whitby Abbey's silhouette as brooding as the myths that cling to its ruins. Sneaton’s church has its own stories to tell. 

The present building, dedicated to St Hilda, is the third to stand on this ground, raised by James Wilson in the 19th century. Yet the place feels far older—as if the layers of prayer, folklore, and memory linger in the very air. 

By happy chance, our visit coincided with the church’s bicentenary. The nave was filled with floral displays and tributes—joyful balloons mingled with tender memorial bouquets. 

Among them, I paused at white lilies dedicated to Frank and Jane Parker and Reginald Perrett—quietly beautiful, touched with reverence. 

But one arrangement drew me close: a tribute for Sally Peacock, with balls of yarn amidst the flowers. What a perfect, personal gesture for someone whose life was twined with craft. I found myself wishing I could have met her, to share stories and laughter over wool and the meditative rhythm of crochet. 

And here rests the font—an immense Norman stone carved in 1108. Astonishingly, when it was removed for the rebuilding, it was left to languish in a garden before Thomas Chapman rescued it and returned it to its rightful place. Its zigzag carvings of Norman artistry, and ammonite spirals echoing the cliffs and fossils of Whitby. 

The ammonites carry the legend of St Hilda herself. Folklore tells how the saint, faced with a land overrun by serpents, turned them into stone with her prayers. The cliffs around Whitby yield their fossil coils as if to prove the tale, serpents forever frozen in time. Even the town’s coat of arms shows these petrified snakes—a reminder of faith interwoven with the land’s geology. 

This striking stained glass window was created by Alan Davis of Lythe to mark the millennium. It celebrates “The Song of Caedmon,” the oldest surviving English poem, born in Whitby Abbey where Caedmon found his voice. The window glows with story and song, a bridge across a thousand years. 

Just down the road is The Wilson Arms. Sadly, the pub wasn’t open when we visited but I took a photo of the times so we can plan it better next time.

I have a feeling we’ll be back at Sneaton soon. Between the sea views, the stories, and the sense of history wrapped up in this little church, it’s a place that lingers with you.

Blogging Isn’t Dead — It’s Just Waiting for Us

Lately, I’ve found myself frustrated with social media. Reels, influencer noise, and clickbait seem to drown out the things I’m genuinely interested in. Everything feels louder, faster, and more cluttered than I want. 

I don’t always love the way technology insists on “upgrading” my life. Half the time, it just leaves me relearning things that used to be simpler. What I really want is something easy, calm, and familiar. That’s why I’ve wandered back here. 

In Bloggerland, the pace feels slower. Yes, the interface has its quirks (hello, photo upload issues), but at least it doesn’t change every five minutes. I feel a little more in control here — and a lot less bombarded.

Hardly anyone blogs anymore, which makes this feel a bit like opening a time capsule. It’s nostalgic, comforting, and a reminder of how online spaces used to feel: more personal, more thoughtful, more… human. 

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if blogs had a little renaissance? If you’ve been toying with the idea of dusting yours off, consider this a gentle nudge. I might be standing here alone in the quiet … but honestly? 

I don’t mind.

It’s peaceful. 

And to me, that’s exactly the point

A Room With a Bruise

Downstairs in our home has steps. Lots of them. All over the place. Our abode moulds itself round an incline. The ground floor is where all changes in level are accommodated with these steps. Steps are very tricky when you're on crutches. Steps are why I'm in this mess. 

Due to the quirky layout of our home, a former blacksmith's forge, our bedroom is downstairs. Consequently I've decided to temporarily base myself upstairs in the spare bedroom while my foot heals. With its ensuite shower room on the same level, it's much easier to get to the loo without resorting to undignified bum shuffling. 

I can see out of a window from my perch, where I rest my ankle. There are sheep in the far field wandering about grazing on brown grass. The farmer delivers barley, dispensed from his trailer. The sheep start to run, eager to greet it. 

The morning light today is clear and bright. A breeze is teasing extremities on the trees which sway gently as if waving good morning. It makes me smile. Occasionally they stir with more vigour, as if they have caught the drift of a new piece of exciting gossip they must urgently pass on. 

The spiky silhouettes of my dracaena houseplants stand to attention from their spot near the window, a hauty salute to the new day ... we accept the generous radiance you bestow even if we can't get out to enjoy it.

It's all kicking off, Sue

I had an accident going down some steps. This is maybe the fourth time I have hurt myself there. I rush about, distracted by something else I'm thinking about. Consequently, I don't pay sufficient attention to what I'm doing. 

There are four steps from my kitchen going down into the utility room. They go down on a curve turning a left handed right angle. The steps are therefore narrower on the inside of the curve than the outside. My foot missed the final tread and I ended up in a groaning heap on the floor. 

The last time I did this, it was only a twisted ankle but on this occasion, an x-ray revealed a broken bone on the top of my foot. It doesn't hurt when it's immobile but moving about causes some pain. I've got this snazzy new boot to wear which keeps it still, it's very helpful. 

Putting weight on it is excruciating, I have a pair of crutches to help me hobble about about. I'm waiting on a call from the Fracture Clinic who will want to x-ray it again after a few days. The doctor in the Urgent Treatment Centre thinks I may get away without having to have an operation. I remember breaking my toe way back in the 90s, that was the same, you just have to wait for it to heal.

I had great treatment from the UTC at Grantham, Doctor Henry, nurses Julie and Karen, the receptionist ... all were fantastic. The NHS is full of caring, helpful, valuable people like them. I am in their debt.