Andy’s Yorkshire Rambles

It is difficult to explain my affection for Scarborough. Like most British seaside towns it is a little scruffy around the edges – tacky, run down, and seriously outdated. Yet I believe I have developed an unusual case of Stockholm syndrome. As a child I would constantly complain that I wanted to go to Spain, or other exotic long haul destinations. Nonetheless I was always taken captive by the boating lake, the penny arcades and the bracing wind of the Yorkshire coast as I was dragged to Scarborough on family trips too numerous to mention. After years of enforced weekend incarceration, I have an irrational love of Scarborough.

I set out to Scarborough to investigate the cause of my illness and to see if an impartial, grown up eye would serve as a possible cure. Arriving on a crisp, frosty January morning the harbour was faithful to my stark childhood memory; a charming mismatch of buildings hugging the coast under the watchful eye of a ruined castle atop the cliffs. I initially ventured into one of the many arcades that I had once loved. I was charmed to see smiling children transfixed by machines in the hope of winning 2p coins, however, I was also aware of several gaunt, unkempt middle aged people who seemed equally transfixed by high return fruit machines, depositing pound coins just as rapidly as the children deposited their coppers. As a child I had never seen this, perhaps I had not understood, or maybe I was far too focused on trying to work out a strategy to win back my pocket money.

I left the arcade to escape the unwelcome feeling in my stomach that something I had loved was not a completely harmless pursuit. It was overlooking the beach that I was reminded why I love Scarborough. On a day where temperatures barely reached above 5˚C there were several families enjoying games of cricket, football or just running in and out of the water. They didn’t seem to notice the cold, but as I was free from the warming effect of fun I retreated to a nearby pub. In the warmth, with a drink I began chatting to a rather rotund gentleman with a handlebar moustache I could only dream of growing. As we began discussing Scarborough, he explained, “It reminds me of when I was a child, it feels safe and familiar.” For a man in his 50’s (I’m guessing, I didn’t ask, out of politeness and fear of his size) to admit this was quite impressive, and hopefully only partly an effect of the several empty pint glasses at his table.

A young couple had overheard us, the girl explained to me that she had been coming to Scarborough for years, that it was, “kitsch and quirky, it’s very old fashioned but in a good way.” Her fiancée didn’t seem to agree; he couldn’t understand the appeal, but saw that his partner was strangely calm when she was there.

I reflected on these conversations as I was rowing my boat around the lake in the nearby Peasholm Park. We are constantly told that we are a divided country, a ‘broken Britain’; we are losing our identity and growing apart. I never believed this, but sat in my rowing boat it gained a new meaning for me. My grandparents had been to Scarborough as children, they had brought my parents who had in turn brought me; I was standing in the footprint of my family. This kind of connection, of constancy, of familiarity created a sense of safety and serenity that is hard to achieve. Ordinarily I am constantly aware of what others think of me and how I’m perceived, and yet I was a 21 year old man in a boating lake full of children, in a rowing boat on my own, and yet I didn’t feel remotely conspicuous. If a place can have that effect on me, I don’t mind if it’s a bit outdated.