We went to Whitby Abbey today. You know, the big ruined monastery up on the cliff, looking all dramatic and windswept like something out of a gothic novel. (Which, let’s be honest, it kind of is—thanks, Bram Stoker.)
The weather was doing that classic North Yorkshire thing where it can’t decide between freezing you or blowing you into the sea. We set off optimistically under blue skies, and by the time we got to the top of the 199 steps, I was questioning my life choices. Patricia, naturally, was fine. She powered up them like she was on some sort of medieval pilgrimage. I, on the other hand, reached the top wondering if maybe I should take up jogging. Or not.
Bertie, of course, got to the top first and immediately started causing problems.
History Happened Here (Meanwhile, Bertie Was Doing Something Unspeakable)
Standing in a place like this, you can’t help but think about all the people who passed through here before. The monks, the pilgrims, the Viking raiders who probably weren’t as impressed by the view as we were.
Patricia reminded me—because she knows these things—that this is where the Synod of Whitby happened in 664 AD. Which was, apparently, a huge deal. Basically, a bunch of important people got together to decide whether England should follow the Celtic or Roman version of Christianity. A big debate, lots of arguing, history was made, etc.
And just as I was thinking about how this was once one of the most important religious sites in England, Bertie promptly disgraced himself.
Right in the middle of the grass. In front of several tourists.
Patricia looked mortified. I chose to pretend I didn’t see. We are never allowed anywhere nice.
That View, Though.
There’s a point where you stand by the ruins and look out over the North Sea, and for a moment, you just have to stop.
The sea here is relentless. It doesn’t shimmer, it doesn’t invite you in. It’s just there, massive and churning, daring you to mess with it. No wonder Bram Stoker looked at this place and thought, “Yep, Dracula would definitely live here.”
And way before vampires? Vikings. Imagine being a monk up here, copying your little manuscripts, saying your little prayers, glancing out at that sea every now and then, just in case a longboat appears on the horizon. That must’ve been a bad day at work.
The Museum (or, Yet Another Reminder That Henry VIII Ruined Everything)
We wandered into the museum, which was small but interesting, and—shockingly—not overrun with school trips. It covers the whole history of the abbey, from St. Hilda founding it in 657 AD to Henry VIII deciding he didn’t like monasteries anymore and tearing it all down.
We’ve been watching Wolf Hall on iPlayer (which is fantastic, by the way), and if there’s one thing we’ve learned, it’s that if something historic is in ruins, Henry VIII probably had something to do with it.
Man loved a good dissolution.
Fish, Chips, and a Full-Blown Seagull Heist
After all that history, we did the only sensible thing. Went straight to the harbour and got fish and chips.
Now, if you’ve ever eaten anything in Whitby, you know the seagulls here are on another level.
These birds have strategies. One swoops from behind to distract you, another comes in from the side and steals your chip clean out of your hand.
I lost three chips before I got wise to their tactics. Patricia? Didn’t lose a single one. She claims this is because she has “better situational awareness.”
We sat there, watching the sun dip over the water, talking about the abbey, thinking about all the centuries of people who had stood on that same cliff, looking out over that same sea.
It’s weird, isn’t it? How a place can stick with you like that.
We’ll be back. But next time, Bertie stays on a lead.
