Back to Robin Hood’s Bay. Again. Because apparently, I can’t stay away.
If you’ve been, you get it. If you haven’t—picture a tiny village clinging to the cliffs, twisting alleyways leading nowhere in particular, and the sea looking like it’s got a grudge against the land. Proper Yorkshire.
It was blowing an absolute gale. The kind of wind that makes you question your life choices. Seagulls were fighting for their lives mid-air, and I was fairly certain I’d lose my hat at some point.
But honestly? It suits the place. Robin Hood’s Bay feels like a smuggler’s town, and when the sky’s grey and the waves are crashing, it’s easier to picture dodgy deals happening in the dead of night, crates of contraband rolling through hidden tunnels.
Which, funnily enough, brings me to…
The Tour: Probably 30% Truth, 70% Good Storytelling
We did one of those guided walking tours—led by a bloke who was either a historian or just a really enthusiastic liar. Either way, brilliant storyteller.
He went full tilt into the smuggling history, tales of hidden doors, secret codes, people outwitting the law left, right, and centre.
Was it all true? Probably not. But who cares?
I’d rather take a great story with a bit of creative flair than a dry, precise historical account. Facts are fine, but atmosphere is better.
Fossil Hunting: A Complete and Utter Failure (Again)
After the tour, we hit the beach. Tide was out, meaning prime fossil-hunting time.
Now, Patricia always finds fossils. Always. She could walk five steps, glance down, and suddenly be holding a perfect ammonite like she’s been doing this her whole life.
And me?
Nothing.
Not one. Ever.
I’ve been hunting for fossils since childhood, on every so-called “fossil hotspot” in the country, and I have found absolutely nothing of value.
Meanwhile, actual toddlers are running around, holding up massive, perfect fossils, like they just found a snack on the floor.
Patricia, delighted with her latest discovery, gave me that look. The “Aw, you tried” look.
Cheers.
The View (and the Existential Moment on a Bench)
Eventually, I gave up. We climbed the hill instead. There’s a path that takes you up above the village, and from there, the view is… well.
You stand there, looking down at the tiny red-roofed cottages squashed into the cliffs, and the whole thing feels like something out of a painting. The North Sea stretches out, all brown and choppy and completely uninviting. And you just… stop for a second.
It’s the kind of view that makes you think about time. About how much has changed. About how much hasn’t.
Wouldn’t mind getting stuck in a place like this for a while.
Fish and Chip Failure, But a Pint to Save the Day
So, the plan was to get fish and chips. Because obviously. It’s what you do.
Except—plot twist—the chip shop wasn’t frying that night.
Unbelievable.
So, plan B: straight to the pub.
Low ceilings, a bit dark inside, the comforting smell of beer and something fried. I ordered a mild and black, because if you’re in North Yorkshire, you drink like it.
Sat in a corner, pint in hand, listening to the wind hammer the windows.
And that was that.
Robin Hood’s Bay? Still brilliant. Even when it conspires against me.
Will I find a fossil next time? No. Will I try? Obviously.
