retiredmartin

March 2024. Whitby.

Hard to believe, but Whitby is the UK’s tourism cash cow, its Monschau or Lake Como if you like; the all-year tourist attraction for Brits young and old, frail and sporty, drawn by steep steps and seagull stealing saveloy, which is my best alliteration for a while.

We only had to sell one of our children to afford a Marston’s motel at their chain diner a mile south of town, but you can’t drive all the way to Whitby for a GBG tick in a micro (that might even be closed) and head straight home, can you ?

Actually the Quirky Den had only just re-opened after a break, and I believe one ticker had been consequently disappointed, but it wasn’t BRAPA, who it seems has yet to visit.

An invigorating (grey) stroll down the east bank of the Esk, a reminder of what an attractive town Whitby is,

even if folks come 99% for chips and gems and goth.

“Oooh that looks good, I want to go in there !” shouts Mrs RM, blissfully unaware the QD (as any kidz left in Whitby call it) is my reason for being here.

We enter to a classic;

and once Mrs RM skilfully negotiates the leap necessary to sit on the raised bench round the walls we judge the Quirky a little gem, too.

Most of that is down to the young owner, maintaining his charm and patience as I asked him the history of the place (the 2024 version of asking if someone has had a good journey) despite it being written in chalk above my head;

See, always smiling,

and a smiling publican means happy customers, most of whom seem to be visitors.

Old Peculier from the wood and a chewy Wold Top, NBSS 3.5 the pair,

and a constant stream of jokes between bar and bench.

This chap upstairs seemed less impressed,

and of course some will have views on the loos.

We loved it all.