Bridlington offers Miami Fever for summer fun lovers.
Whether or not it was Albert Einstein who stated ‘insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results’ is unimportant, what matters is that it's an apt definition. Because I now realise that I am surely insane.
The evidence for this classification is in my determination to go camping in England each summer - I dream about getting close to nature and, instead, end up getting close to hypothermia. This was especially true of my recent camping expedition in Yorkshire. Here, in late June/early July, I experienced torrential rain, temperatures slumping to single figures, blustery wind and a bleakness straight out of Wuthering Heights. It's grim up north? So it proved in mid-summer.
Living in a Peckham council flat - one just off the Old Kent Road - means my existence is extremely urban. Emergency vehicle sirens lull me to sleep while navigating taped-off crime scenes is taken for granted when stepping out for a pint of milk. Thus the dream (fantasy?) of going up the country - as Canned Heat once sang - hovers in my mind. Inevitably, I take a train to rural Suffolk where my pal Tim lives - he inhabits a thatched cottage in a picturesque village that has surely never heard an emergency siren or experienced a crime scene - and off we head to a destination Tim has chosen.
Beautiful as these locations often are, climatic conditions tend to punish us - in Somerset it rained heavily, in Lincolnshire it rained heavily, in north Norfolk it rained sporadically and in Yorkshire it rained heavily and turned the temperature down so low it became akin to camping in mid-March. Tim, 75, has no problem with this. “I love listening to the rain,” he will say when I complain of the endless downpours. When a dawn chorus of feathered creatures breaks my fragile sleep Tim will reply, “I love listening to bird song.” My response is more sanguine, it being 4.52 AM when the bastard birds start shrieking and I’ve already had trouble sleeping. I begin to envision BBQ chiffchaff and skylark and woodpecker but, as Tim’s a veggie, this is unlikely.
My tiny tent is a Soul 300 - I think this is likely a reference to how, after sleeping in such, you might well consider selling your soul for a bit of comfort.
Tim is, as you might imagine, extremely optimistic, a hobbit who loves to sleep under the stars. He’s an old hippie - if they ever decide to relaunch The Young Ones as The Old Ones then he would be perfect for the role of happy cosmic groover - while I’m a middle-aged punk rocker and rather more cynical in outlook. Also: I feel the cold. Indeed, I rarely step outside without a scarf and beanie. While Tim is oblivious to such. Which means our experiences of the environment where we are camping tend to involve extreme contrasts.
Initially, our Yorkshire sojourn didn’t appear too bleak. Yes, it was spitting when we erected our tents and this soon became a heavy downpour but, as the song goes, I can stand a little rain. Or should that song be who’ll stop the rain? As it kept raining the Creedence tune wins. Tim heated some food on his gas stove - beans and such - and we huddled under his awning to eat it. I envisioned what I might be up to on a London Saturday night but Tim instructed me to enjoy the peace and fresh air - two qualities I admittedly don’t get much of. The forecast for Sunday was dry and - outside of freezing in my sleeping bag (it's supposedly designed for 2 seasons but, this being the British summer, it appears I need a bag designed for arctic trips) - I was still somewhat optimistic on Sunday morning, the downpours having stopped.
Off we went on our first trek in the Yorkshire Wolds, towards the village of Goodmanham. I know nothing of this village or region but it turned out that we were trekking across the Londesborough Estate, a huge chunk of farm land once owned by the Duke of Devonshire. The land is rolling and fertile, home to plenty of cattle and some glorious oaks and walnut trees. After a couple of hours walking we arrive at the tiny village of Londesborough. There’s an ancient church and a collection of cottages, several of which have gorgeous gardens - plaques on their gates declare them winners of awards for such - while other cottages stand oddly empty, seemingly the current landlord not being bothered with ensuring they are made use of.
Onwards we go, through fields of wheat, and down to our destination of Goodmanham. Tim’s learnt of a pub here that brews its own dark beers and serves supposedly delicious food. It’s Sunday and early afternoon so he’s been trying to raise my spirits by emphasising how I will be able to enjoy a feast downed with dark ale and stout. Upon arrival the pub is heaving and the plates of food being delivered to tables do look appetising. I’d already suspected that Sunday lunch may not be available to those who arrive unannounced and so it proves - “do you have a reservation?” we’re asked. It's a no, thus we can’t order food. Well, we can at least order some dark ale. Turns out this is also a “no”. For some reason they don’t have any currently on tap.
Somewhere in the distance is a pub that won’t serve us food or dark ale….
We get pints of bitter and sit outside where a lonely local bloke chats about his life to us. Turns out he worked in casinos all his life and, while this paid well, it doesn’t sound like he enjoyed working in an industry designed to fleece the poor and gullible. I may not earn much with this writing gig but at least I don’t suffer a troubled conscience. What I do suffer from is lacking warm sleeping gear - that evening I climb into my bag wearing not simply pjs but socks, scarf, sweat shirt+pants and a beanie. And I’m still cold (as the temperature has dropped to single digits this isn’t surprising).
Monday’s forecast is bleak - even by “its bleak up North” proceedings - so we head into the historic city of York. I was last here a good while ago while Tim has, amazingly, never set foot in York before. We walk the walls before the rains arrive, absorbing the titbits of historic info’ provided - did you know York was home to the worst pogrom of Jews in British history? On 17 March 1190 crusaders and their supporters besieged the Jewish community, who took refuge in York Castle and ended up committing mass suicide rather than being butchered by the mob then trying to burn the Jews out. I know, it's why you read these posts - the fun facts I dot my writings with…
Into the old city we go, marvelling at York Cathedral (from the outside - its £18 entry), which is vast and certainly an impressive edifice. The Shambles - the oldest part of the old town - is besieged by the likes of us (ie tourists), the archaic buildings now resemble a leftover set from the likes of Game Of Thrones. I learn that Guy Fawkes grew up here and declared a specific tavern (still trading - at least its name is) as makers of his favourite pie while a narrow alleyway (there’s lots) was, until relatively recently, called Mad Alice Lane: a local resident later informs me Mad Alice was a woman who, suffering mental health problems, claimed responsibility for all kinds of crimes which she hadn’t committed - they executed her anyway. York, not the kind of historic city you visit for light relief...
Funny how a religious fanatic who attempted to blow up parliament has gained both immortality and heroic status - I’m guessing in certain nations the likes of Bin Laden are receiving similar iconic status. You guys….
Entering the old town we passed a large model shop, which fascinated me in the sense I recall such emporiums existing when I was a nipper and liked glueing plastic aeroplanes together (I didn’t realise there remained any real interest in doing so). Speaking of antiquated pursuits, in Earworm Records York has a fine record shop specialising in black music. The rains come and we take refuge in an independent cafe – the old town being dotted with all the usual chains. Their coffee is serviceable but when I ask if I could charge my phone for a few minutes - our campsite has no electricity (or wifi - yes, Tim likes “get back to nature” sites) - they say no, adding that the manager has covered over the charging points so as to save on electricity bills. Is there a popular stereotype of the thrifty Yorkshire person? I wonder.
Back on our campsite and it keeps raining. We call the Goodmanham pub and ask if we could make a reservation for dinner. They tell us all tables are booked. Jeez. Tim heats up beans on his stove and then declares that we should visit Stamford Bridge. I thought this was the name of Chelsea FC’s ground but it now turns out to be a nearby village situated where a historic battle took place between King Harold and Norwegian Viking invaders in 1066. Harold was victorious and, buoyed up, he rushed off to Hastings to confront more pesky invaders, this time from Normandy…
Today Stamford Bridge appears anything but suitable for fighting over. It’s bridge - now designed for motor vehicles - is closed for repairs and most of the village’s traders have followed suit: the pub (with its Viking sign), butcher, letting agency and Chinese restaurant having all ceased trading. Oddly, there’s a new gin/whiskey bar, artisan bakery and barbers, which might suggest young professionals are settling here. We go for a river walk but find the path heavily overgrown, especially by Japanese knotweed, a more tenacious (and successful) invader than those Vikings. Why isn’t the local council fighting this invasive species. Perhaps, like the publican, they decided to quit. Everything feels damp and depressed here.
Tim’s kindly provided me with a blanket but I still sleep poorly. Oh, for my bed! The next morning we drive to Bridlington, a noted fishing port and seaside holiday resort. The rain has cleared so we park and explore the wide, empty beach and surrounding town. When the sun is out and the beach full of families it must convey timeless joy but, on a damp morning, the mood is bleak. We walk along the harbour front - which is well designed and spacious - until we reach Bridlington’s town centre.
Here is where what’s left of Yorkshire’s fishing industry - largely lobster and crab these days - congregates and the tourists huddle. Bridlington’s central shopping area appears full of mobility scooter and vape shops, alongside innumerable outlets offering fish & chips, cafes, ice cream, pubs, sweets and, surrounding the main wharf area, the cold sea food snacks the British love to chew on. There’s a fun fair that looks anything but fun and a “pirate” ship which offers a quick journey from mooring into the harbour and back for £3. B&Bs and Travelodges offer cheap accommodation. Once upon a time, Bridlington must have been akin to Blackpool and Brighton as a boisterous seaside resort but, today, it feels akin to Stamford Bridge or King Harold in Hastings - out of time and lacking luck.
Suitably Heathcliffe & Cathy territory? Flamborough Heads…
We then drive a short distance north, through the distinctly named village of Sewerby, and out to Flamborough Heads Nature Resort. Here the white chalk cliffs attract walkers and sea birds. There’s a cafe serving tea, sausage sandwiches and non-barista coffee. We sit for a bit, observing the unplugged Space Invaders machine, and ponder all we have seen. More torrential rain is forecast for this evening. If Bridlington felt like the end of empire then Flamborough feels like the end of the earth. “Tim,” I say, “let’s quit while we’re ahead.”