Who he of the Lincoln green? Miles from here. I can vouch for that after my journey across the North York Moors. Robin Hood is not just a Notts hero but a mythic figure of a swathe of the frozen North, liberating wealth from the nobs and rousing the downtrodden peasants. I imagine Sean Bean down on the beach singing sea shanties with the smugglers saving casks of sack from the surf. The story put forth is that smuggling was so rife in this precipitous outcrop on the Cleveland shore that a basket of silk could be moved from the quay to the top of the village in less than five minutes without ever being seen in the street. A close knit fishing community isolated from the rest of Yorkshire by inaccessible roads and tall cliffs would have been an ideal bolt-hole for legendary smugglers. Many a ship has foundered in these treacherous waters and smuggling or 'salvage' would have been a lucrative sideline.
Tucked into the hillside, sheltered from the worst of the North Easterlies, it is clear why it has become a greta escape destination. Just enough interest for a week's exploring has led to the entire village consisting of second homes and holiday rentals. IN the maze of cottages ranged up and down the hillside the ubiquitous cottage for rent sign evinced the plethora of options. It must be abut with visitors in the summer months and once there you wouldn't want to climb back up to the car park too often. Whatever the arguments about short term rentals it seems to have kept the pace alive. Im not sure what industry would keep the place afloat otherwise. Perhaps this is the inevitable future of such chocolate box destinations.
Harder souls once lived here eking out a living from the sea. Idyllic fora a visit this would have been a harsh place to live in the depths of col winters and there is a memorial to the bravery of the Whitby lifeboat crew. It tells a tale of the stranded Brig 'Visiter' and the people and horses who helped transport the Whitby lifeboat across the cliff heights reaching 500 feet in snowdrifts to save the sailors. Legendary feats pitting some Klaus Kinski figure directing stout yeoman to overcome all obstacles raising the boat over the moors and into the bay.
The weather held out for us and as the sea receded the full glory of the beach and the wide stretch of sand and rock-pools became visible stretching out to Ravenscar. What view for these tiny cottages ranged up the hill, tumbling over one another, competing for social status as the street rises.
Theres not much cat swinging going on and neighbours must have been on good terms. I can see why locals sold up after having half of Yorkshire poking their heads into your living room. In't it cute, 'compact and bijou'. It is a great place to bimble around the terraced cobbles, musing on the living history. Shades of Dylan Thomas' Llaregub rife for a Yorskhire revision. Mog and Captain Cat were to be found in the Laurel Inn which quickly became our favourite pub, all wooden chairs, open fire and snug warmth in the glow of Timothy Taylor Landlord. The village is probably more Landlord swilling Madonna these days than Polly Garter but there was warmth in the welcome both here and in the Dolphin where local musicians blasted out Dylan covers with a Brexit twist.
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