Sunday: finding myself unexpectedly in Leeds, I elected to amend the situation by removing myself from it. Leeds, that is.
So it was that I found myself barreling merrily up the A64 past York, heading Moor-wards, into the snow beyond Pickering. A quick detour into the hamlet of Lockton to view the old family retreat convinced me that kite flying at Levisham was a bad idea on two counts. Firstly, the Bank would likely be impassable (and with a 200ft sheer drop on one side of the road, ice is best avoided, I find). Secondly, the day was completely still. So, Whitby it was.
Ah, the coast. It’s far too long since I’ve seen the North Sea, and let it chill my toes. Which is a timely reminder that my walking boots’ waterproof layer has now completely given up even pretending.
Having fought the seagulls in an attempt to reclaim at least a few of my chips, I decided against stinking the car out with some kippers (just as well – the shop was shut anyway), and headed back via Egton and Blakey Ridge. It’s always a moonscape up there, but with snow piled a metre deep at the side of the road and a setting sun blazing the sky russet it’s quite extraordinary. At minus 3.5 (according to the Mini, which was probably exaggerating in an effort to dissuade me from trying any more side-roads) it was also ruddy cold, so I high-tailed it back to Leeds.
A wonderful afternoon. Sorry, no pictures – I had with me no electronics at all. You’ll just have to take my word for it.