Scarborough and Whitby, 24-25 July 2014

July 24, Thursday

This morning Adam said sadly, “Today is the last day we’ll be driving the Land Rover.” Tomorrow we drop it off with the mechanic, Geoff. We can’t import it to the US, so Geoff has agreed to store it for us and sell it for a commission.

The Land Rover has grown on the kids over the summer. Holden said, “Oh. That makes me sad.” Isabella and Josie concurred; they’ve developed some affection for the car.

I still hate it.

The last house we stayed in had a book by Jeremy Clarkson, that tall guy from Top Gear. It’s a compilation of car reviews he’s published in his newspaper column over the years and Adam found the review he wrote for the Defender 90. Clarkson said it had one of the most dangerous interiors of any car ever made, all pointy edges, and in general said it was a horrible disaster of a product. I feel vindicated!! Adam has been telling me all summer that my characterization of this car as a death trap is unfair. Au contraire …. Jeremy Clarkson, the car guy, concluded the same and made his wife sell hers.

The only saving grace is that the Land Rover has a top speed of about 60 miles per hour, and on most English roads you can’t go over 35 anyway. At least we’ve been driving at slow speeds.

Clarkson writes: “Passengers, too, were worried about the sharp edges in the cabin, which they reckoned would be a serious issue in a crash. Chance would be a fine thing; you need to have some speed to have an accident, and our Land Rover wouldn’t even go fast enough to get the air screamers working. Not that this was a problem, because even if you came round a corner at full speed, a tortoise would have time to amble out of your way. Eventually I won the day and my wife agreed to swap this stupid car for one with an engine. A big one.” Full article here.

Adam and I have come to the much the same agreement, although in our case it was me desperate to get rid of the Land Rover. Adam was so sad about it that I had to appease him by agreeing to buy a much better car back home as a consolation prize. It will have a big engine.

On our way to Newcastle, we stopped to visit a Castle and for lunch in Scarborough. This old ruins is much like all the others, but possibly significant to members of my family with Quaker roots: George Fox was imprisoned here for about a year.

There isn’t much left. It’s easy to think of stone as being permanent, but Europe is full of old stone buildings that have fallen to ruin in a just a couple hundred years. Not so permanent after all.

The plaque reads: The Cockhill Tower. Also known as Charles’s Tower stood at the edge of the cliff near this point. George Fox, founder of the Society of Friends, is said to have been imprisoned here when he was held in the Castle from 1665 to 1666.

His place of imprisonment was at the very bottom of that long wall, way off in the distance falling away into the sea. At least he (potentially) had a nice view. [photo below]

A quick wikipedia search reveals that he spent quite a lot of time in prison. The charges usually were for blasphemy — in his case, preaching without a license. “Charges usually included causing a disturbance and travelling without a pass. Quakers fell foul of irregularly enforced laws forbidding unauthorized worship while actions motivated by belief in social equality—refusing to use or acknowledge titles, take hats off in court or bow to those who considered themselves socially superior—were seen as disrespectful.

… In prison George Fox continued writing and preaching, feeling that imprisonment brought him into contact with people who needed his help—the jailers as well as his fellow prisoners. In his journal, he told his magistrate, “God dwells not in temples made with hands.” He also sought to set an example by his actions there, turning the other cheek when being beaten and refusing to show his captors any dejected feelings.”

He was imprisoned 11 times in his life, but released every time. Considering what we’ve learned about prisons here, he must have been treated relatively decently. Most people thrown into prison back then only got out once — as a corpse. So, I’m guessing George got a nice window.

My ancestors were Quakers but I never bothered to learn much about them until I started looking up facts about George Fox. What I learned surprised me.

I’ve always assumed the Quakers were just like the Puritans … conservative religious fanatics determined to suck all joy out of life and glorify suffering. The Quakers were actually the opposite of that. They were the liberal hippies of the mid-1600s.

They believed that anyone could have a personal relationship with God without needing a priest or church leader to act as an intermediary between God and person; they believed that ANYONE could be a preacher if they felt God calling them to it (and by “anyone” they not only meant lay-people, but they also meant women, which caused quite a bit of trouble at the time); they believed that women should have equal rights; they were anti-slavery; they were anti-establishment; and George Fox, in particular, was anti-Church. He thought that God resided everywhere, and refused even to use the word “church” for the places his Friends held their meetings. He called them “steeple-houses” instead. He was also very much a pacifist, and one of the reasons he kept being released from jail is that the leaders of the time became convinced that he wasn’t going to rally his followers into staging a bloody coup against the folks in charge.

The Quakers were persecuted in England for these radical anti-establishment beliefs. They kept getting thrown in prison for violating the allegiance laws. (A person was required to swear allegiance to the King or some other leader, but the Quakers believed one should swear allegiance only to God. From what I understand, American Quakers to this day will not say the Pledge of Allegiance to the American flag.) George Fox was once thrown in prison for refusing to remove his hat in front of a judge; Fox figured that if he was allowed to wear a hat in the presence of God, he should not have to take it off for a man.

Anyway, a large group of Quakers fled to the Netherlands, hoping they would have an easier time of it there. Sadly, they did not. Instead of just being thrown in jail, they were executed. Meanwhile, another group of them had gone to the English settlements in America and were faring a little better. The Netherlands group pulled up stakes and moved en masse to America. Then they discovered they were still being persecuted by the Puritans, who were disgusted by their hippie peace-loving, all-men-and-women-are-created-equal views. The Quakers also refused to fight — ever. They didn’t “do” violence and refused to participate in wars and such. The Puritans executed quite a few of them.

I feel closer to my ancestors now. I am proud of them for their attitudes. I don’t have any use for the religious nonsense, but their civil/human rights goals are very much in line with my own beliefs today. They were basically humanists, with a religious twist. Good on them.

Very nice walk with gorgeous views of the sea. It was really windy, which was OK today because it was nice and warm, but would be really unpleasant in the winter. Based on what the vegetation looks like up here, we’re guessing that it’s windy pretty much 365 days per year.

We walked down into the town. Scarborough is a very pretty seaside town, and bustling with activity this summer. The weather in England has been unusually fantastic.

We ate lunch at the restaurant with the blackboard out front [photo below] called The Golden Grid. We were starving and hot, so just chose the first place we came to.

It turned out to be one of the best meals we’ve had on the entire trip. I ordered a fish pie that was called on the menu “A Really Good Fish Pie” — and it was. The special dessert of the day was coconut ice cream served in a coconut shell. I love all things coconut and wanted to order some, but I’ve been having trouble with one of my teeth. Cold things really hurt (I need to see the dentist as soon as we get home next week) so I decided against ordering it for myself. Isabella ordered some, though, and let me have a taste.

It was the best ice cream I’ve ever eaten. It was homemade and so delicious I can’t even begin to describe it. Until now, my favorite dessert has been creme brûlée. I don’t even generally like ice cream very much — when I was a little girl, I suffered from undiagnosed acid reflux disease and ice cream was one of the foods that triggered a horrible stomach ache. I’ve always associated it with not feeling well, so it’s usually one of those foods I have no trouble saying “no” to. All that changed with a bite of this coconut ice cream.

I promised Adam and the kids that I’d finally buy an ice cream machine when we get home. I will recreate that coconut delight no matter how much I have to experiment.

The last thing to recommend this restaurant: it has hired the most handsome boy I’ve ever seen. We walked in and an absolutely gorgeous young man took us to our table. I normally don’t notice things like that because I’m an introvert and, as a general rule, avoid looking at people in the face because eye-contact with strangers is awkward. This guy was something special, though.

When we got to the table and sat down, I leaned over to Adam and whispered, “Did you see that boy? I think he’s the most handsome boy I’ve ever seen.” (He was probably around 23.) Adam made a haughty face but before he could respond, Isabella piped up at my elbow in a stage whisper … “I KNOW! Wow! Oh my God, he was sooooooo good-looking.” She and I decided he was better looking than most movie stars. He was that striking. He looked a lot like Ian Somerhalder, but even better; he could have been Ian Somerhalder’s cute younger brother. Black hair, bright blue eyes, beautifully sculpted face. (I know, I know … you think I’m exaggerating — but you weren’t there. I swear it’s true.)

Adam’s own expression continued to darken as Isabella talked about the beautiful waiter until he finally growled, “No boys. Ever.” Even Josie, who hadn’t seen him, kept asking, “Is that him? Is that him?” of every waiter who walked by. We kept saying, “No, that’s not him.” On the way out we passed him again and Josie said simply, “Oh. That’s him.” She didn’t even have to ask that time.

We left Scarborough in good moods with bellies full of fantastic food and headed for Whitby. Whitby is the setting Bram Stoker used for the English portion of his novel Dracula.

From wikipedia: “Part of Bram Stoker‘s novel Dracula was set in Whitby, incorporating pieces of local folklore, including the beaching of the Russian ship Dmitri. Stoker discovered the name “Dracula” at the old public library. One scholar has suggested that Stoker chose Whitby as the site of Dracula’s first appearance in England because of the Synod of Whitby, given the novel’s preoccupation with timekeeping and calendar disputes.”

It’s a great example of an old Gothic cathedral.

An old sarcophagus (tomb?) stuck in the ground with no lid. The kids took turns being dead. How many people can say they’ve reposed in a grave at the Abbey that inspired Dracula? When they are forced to read it in English class in high school or college, maybe this day will become more significant to them. At the very least, they will have an awesome photo to clip to the bottom of their book report.

Josie’s turn.

Isabella dead …

… and in Zombie mode. “Death can’t keep me down!”

Holden feels he’s seen it all now and is wondering how much longer the rest of us are going to take.

Me, inspecting an old staircase. It used to lead to the upper levels, but now is home to a whole bunch of pigeons. There is a several inch buildup of poop on the floor and many discarded, hatched-out egg shells. People may have moved out, but animals are still using it.

These people were rehearsing for a play.

Tombstones at the nearby church. “Written in stone” is a phrase people use to mean that something is permanent and can’t be undone … we’ve come to realize that stone is hardly permanent. The buildings crumble, and the tomb markers become illegible. 200 years after a person dies, they can expect to be completely forgotten unless they have done something special that gets them written about in a history book or story. Most of the stones here that can still be read have dates in the late 1800s. Anything before that is just gone.

Near the parking lot, we found some horses. I happened to have an apple in the car, so we gave it to this horse. It didn’t take more than a few seconds for other horses in the field to notice and come over to get in on the treats.

One apple split between 4 horses. They only got a small bite each, but seemed happy anyway.

Josie loves horses. We finally had to threaten to take away her screen time to get her back to the car. (“But he likes me!”) We’ll have to start her on riding lessons this fall.

July 25, Friday

This morning we returned the Land Rover to Geoff and picked up our rental car at the airport. Adam has been saying for days that turning over the Land Rover is going to make him sad. I interpreted that to mean that he’d feel sort of disappointed.

When we finally had everything squared away and were back in the hotel, Adam flopped down on the bed and just stared silently at the ceiling. He looked very sad. I said, “Are you actually sad?” He said, “Yes. I’ve been telling you for days that I was going to be sad.”

Me: “I thought you were exaggerating. You know, it’s not an animal that has feelings and doesn’t understand why it’s been abandoned. It’s just a car.”

Adam: “I have feelings! I have feelings for the car. I am sad.”

Then I felt bad. I underestimated how much he actually likes that thing. He said that getting rid of it felt like abandoning a pet, and I know what that feels like. It’s hard for me to understanding caring about an inanimate object that much, but clearly he does. I hate the car, but I love Adam and feel terrible that he has to give up on his Land Rover dream.

We drove back to the Holiday Inn to drop off some stuff and then walked to the TGI Friday’s for lunch. It proved to be the worst meal we’ve eaten on this entire trip, and also one of the most expensive.

Back in Stratford-Upon-Avon, I bought a teapot in an antiques shop for £10. The guy running the shop was from California and we got to chatting. He had been living in England for more than 20 years, but said the thing he and his wife missed the most about the United States was good Mexican food. His wife very literally dreams about Taco Bell. (“My wife woke up the other day and said, ‘I had the Taco Bell dream again.'”)

“Stay away from Mexican food in England,” he warned.

He was right. At the TGIF today I ordered the veggie fajitas. Adam said, “That guy told you not to order Mexican food in England.” I figured that fajitas aren’t really Mexican food — how can someone mess up fajitas? It’s just throwing some onions, peppers and veggies on a hot griddle for a couple of minutes, then serving with some tortillas and sour cream.

Wrong. I don’t know what to call what I was served, but it was certainly not fajitas. Fajitas are supposed to sizzle. I was served a pile of wilted, over-boiled vegetables in water with some butter floating on the top. The final insult was that both the salsa and the guacamole were mostly cilantro, and the tortillas were straight out of a refrigerator. They were cold and stiff.

Adam didn’t fare any better with his French Dip. It was a cheeseburger served with a side of “jus” — which I am absolutely certain was the same stuff they use as gravy for the mashed potatoes, and in a narrow-necked pitcher. There is no way one could dip anything into it. It was the exact same meal as Isabella’s cheeseburger, except it came with the tiny shot glass of gravy and was £1.50 more expensive.

We tried to salvage the day by coming up with something fun to do in the afternoon. We visited the nearby Prudhoe Castle. It’s one of the lesser sites and therefore wasn’t crowded, so that was nice. It’s in a beautiful setting, too.

At the gift shop, they were selling bottles of ginger wine. I said to Adam, “How could that possibly be any good?” and the cashier overheard me. “Everyone says that,” she said, “So we have some out for sampling. Would you like to taste it? It’s very good.”

How could we pass up the chance to taste wine made out of ginger? It was good! We ended up buying a bottle to take home.

This was the old grain mill. The plaque said that this mill earned the estate £5 per year, whereas the farming on the 120 acres only earned £3 per year. This estate had two mills, which earned more than triple what the land did at the time. It’s hard to imagine those paltry sums being the yearly earnings of the richest guy around.