A Frank Meadow Sutcliffe photograph from Whitby, many years ago.
It was good to talk to you on the bus last week.
I got to Whitby within 2 hours of finishing our conversation and very much enjoyed it.
I stayed in a B and B overlooking the harbour and sat in the window of my room each evening,
until it was dark, just watching the boats sail in and out. The fishing boats were back by 5 am.
I saw the hotel where Bram Stoker stayed and the abbey is so gothic-like ~I can see how he was inspired.
My William would have loved it. We had always planned to visit Whitby once we retired but sadly he
never quite made it. The cliff walks were breathtaking…as I expected.
She booked into a B and B overlooking the water. The very one which her husband William had promised her he would bring her to once they retired.
This had been their dream. To retire in their early sixties and then go on a tour of Britain in their car. Staying at pretty little hotels or guest houses along the way, and this one in Whitby was the one for them.
Or had been.
Then he died. Unexpectedly that night when returning home.
And she didn’t know where to turn or what to do or where to go or how to carry on or even if she wanted to.
But she did carry on. Her boys helped her. Her 2 chicks who had flown the nest a number of years ago and had made nests for themselves and she loved them until it physically hurt.
Like she had loved William.
They loved her too.
Their Mum was in pain and they carefully held her hand while she found herself again and remembered who she was.
A year had passed.
The darkness slowly cleared. The light began to become more than a tiny glow and the sun began to rise on her mornings once again. She missed him until she couldn’t breathe but those times didn’t smite her for as long as they had once. She saw him everywhere. Heard him in sudden songs. Found him walking through her dreams and woke up desperately lost. But she began to smile and walk and listen and join in and meet people and cook and read and smile. She knew that despite the vicious loss she could and must survive.
So their longed for tour became her’s . The car became buses and trains as she felt the loneliness would be too intense. She needed faces, voices and bodies around her as she travelled. Alone was too much just now.
Whitby filled her with hope. Fishing boats went and came. Seagulls talked to her through the salty air of travels and flight and people and water and the abbey reminded her of years behind and in front.
She was glad she had come.