A celebration of light, life and solitude in a North Yorkshire fishing port

I turn fifty on the weekend.  

To mark the occasion, I retreat to the wilds of North Yorkshire. 

Saturday, David and I set out in the dark, leaving before the birds awaken. We spend the day driving, travelling unimpeded by a fixed schedule, taking time to stop along the way.  Nine hours later, we arrive at our destination -  a tiny little horseshoe-shaped fishing village in North Yorkshire.

We are staying in a one up, one down terraced cottage that sits above the harbour, nestled into the grassy bank of a cliff.  The entire village is surrounded by cliffs that shelter and smother it from a persistent wind that howls unchecked just a hundred meters further up the hill.  

At the top of the road, a narrow strip of green belt separates us from a plunging drop into the sea.  Two miles down the road, a well-lit potash mine dominates an otherwise pristine landscape, one of its two towering chimneys constantly puffing spurious wisps of smoke.  Apparently it is the deepest mine in the United Kindom - 1500 meters deep, with more than 7 kilometers of tunnel stretching beneath the North Sea.   

In the village, it's only the stars that shine in the night. They twinkle like ornaments suspended above the blue-velvet and tangerine striped sky.  The cliff face defines the perimeter of the village.  In certain light the rock formations look less menacing, almost animal-like, perhaps a more benign image of a sleeping dog resting its head in its paws.  Beneath the natural fortress there are several higgledy-piggledy rows of stone cottages. 

The houses are connected by a network of worn cobblestone passages. In the dark, the click of footsteps and doors closing bounce off the hard surfaces.  As the light recedes, the lime-washed walls are bathed in an an amber light that spills from windows. It seeps through cracks in drawn curtains, softenimg the hard lines. 

I listen as the water in the channel laps its way out to sea, sliding past red and blue painted dinghies.  When the tidal sea water drains into the harbour, a gaggle of industrious ducks pick over the exposed rocks and sea weed. There are children running across the foot bridge that joins the two halves of the port.  A wary cat slinks along the outer edge of the shared bridge, avoiding the blue and green nets they carry.

At the bottom of the hill, the harbour wall stretches around the cove like a pair of arms not quite long enough to fully embrace it.  Along the top of the wall, a single beacon intermittently blinks red.  The base of the concrete and granite fortress sparkles in the light.  Beyond the gap in the sea wall, frothy white caps churn in a steel grey sea. It is the North Sea stretching out as far as the eye can see.

In the evening, after the sun sets and the moon has risen, I walk the dogs along the harbour wall, clutching the leads tightly, tugging their heads back from the edge of the pavement.  There below the tumbling rocks, amidst the curling ripples, I spot the tiny head of a solitary seal bobbing haplessly in the surf.   

In the photograph depicting the gap in the harbour wall, look past where the waves are falling on the beach, you can see the lone seal's black head.

Later in the evening, I fall into a deep sleep on the sofa.  I dream I am talking to my brother.  When I awaken at 1.00 am, the room is cold.  I check my emails.  There is a short two liner from my brother admitting he spent the last 20 minutes composing an email, but when he finally hits the send button, it disappears, unwilling to find its way across the Atlantic due to a bandwidth issue.  I climb the narrow staircase leading to the bedroom, slip under a duvet that smells of lavender.  I sleep until Soren, a freckle-faced Welsh Springer, puts two paws on my head.  Time to go out. It is 3.00 am. 

Soren looks too eager to disappoint.  We get up and pull on jumpers, a jacket and a scarf, then quietly trundle out the door.  Spurred on by the cold air, we bolt up the hill nearly as quickly as the dogs. At the top of the hill, we pause to listen to the roar of a full tide crashing into the rocks below.  Soren lifts his head to suck in a good dose of night air.  I pull him nearer, unwilling to get any closer to the cliff's edge.  

We continue for a half mile, briskly walking towards the glowing lights of the mine.  We hear the sound of men's voices,  the distant thud of car doors closing, watch the thin white beams wind their way up the hill.  A car turns in the direction of the mine.  Maybe the early shift starts at 3.30 am.  At last, the dogs relieve themselves, enabling us to turn back towards the house. 

Once home, we light a coal fire. Afterwards, David takes himself off to bed.  I sit at the table writing.  Two teapots later, I pull the curtains aside.  The sky is beginning to warm like the flame of a gas oven - deep purple and blue, surrounded by a growing ball of orange. Realising the light Is returning, I call up to David to tell him it Is time.  It takes him five minutes to get dressed and come down the stairs.  I am already standing outside in my socks, camera in hand. Somewhere further east, the sun is coming up.  It hasn't yet emerged, but dawn is edging its way across the sky.  I dart inside, urging him to hurry so we don't miss it.

We don't. We get to the harbour wall in time to hear, feel and see the sunrise.    

The dogs run excitedly on the sandy beach which glows like molten lava.  

David discovers a fledgling gull at the base of the cliff, probably blown off its nest in the night.  He lifts it, inspecting the wings, but the prognosis is not good.  David carries the injured bird to a more protected rock pool, leaving it there, knowing it is more than likely to become breakfast for a seal or some other predator.  

The poor thing is just a young one. A reminder that beauty and consequence go hand in hand.  The place we have come to, it is full of solitude.