Filey has a widespread reputation for being a little like Brigadoon, or Camelot. Bad weather seems to slide either side of this gorgeous little bay. Many an afternoon when the skies cloud over while we are out driving, when we turn for home we often find Filey haloed in sunshine, looking completely untroubled by the weather. So often it sits under a rainbow of blue skies and sunshine while all around clouds and waves and wind tumble, grumble and roar as if they are not able to penetrate this protected space. Many of the locals comment on this phenomenon.
And again today, we set out under sharp blue skies, with the sun a brilliant yellow and warm as summer, planning a last drive across the moors that bring us here again and again, but within thirty minutes of leaving home the moorland skies hung heavy, grey and gloomy over our vehicle. We were almost tempted to turn back, and call the day quits, as you cannot photograph on such a day. But, our luck held for the most part. Once or twice the sky dumped a heavy leaden shower on the roads behind us, but we found sunshine and blue skies ahead as we persisted driving onwards. The day turned out beautiful, as was the drive.
This coastal scape is green and fertile looking and one after the other little hamlets and villages slipped past. We hit roads climbing high, up over Grosmont, which we plodded across on the coast to coast walk, then moor tracks running down to fast moving fords that we had to decide if we should cross. We took the remote quiet tracks all day, where it was just us, the lambs and the occasional farmer on his tractor wanting to share the space.
In the distance we could see the Larpool Viaduct that once carried the Whitby-Scarborough trains to and fro. We stopped for a photo and chatted to a local who was bemoaning the closure of the line, albeit some 50 years ago now. He wanted the lorries off the roads and back on to those rail tracks, he said. In truth, we sympathised. So many of these roads were never built in the first place to carry the heavy loads that many are now being asked to. Of course they will crumble.
We tend to choose a quiet, more isolated, spot for lunch enroute, and today was no different. We found a country pub in Egton Bridge that served us well: full of character, collectible water jugs and delightful old-fashioned service. We stayed too long talking as usual but it was delightful.
We spent the remainder of the afternoon along the high winding tracks across the moors, stopping occasionally to capture a scene, or a standing stone: not knowing if most were markers for a hanging place, a waypoint, an inscription, or a remnant gate post. Some had lovely old markings on them, somewhat Celtic, which helped us imagine they might even be authentic. Our last stopping place had a bright cheerful home touting a bright yellow door that seemed to sum up, so perfectly, our bright and shiny day, so into our collection of colourful images and memories that went, as well.
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