In the first week of January, 2nd January to be precise, Sheila and I travelled across England going from the Irish Sea to the North Sea in half a day. The weather was cold and dry and when we got to Whitby it was sunny, but the easterly wind was literally Baltic.
Whitby is a wonderful place full of atmosphere. Jarred Triskalion when he’s talking about the Whitby Conclave of Chaos Magicians that existed in the late 1970s on Cliff Street says that like Glastonbury and London, it has its own special atmosphere.
Whitby is famous for its fish and chips, its Goth and Pirate weekends and its synod. The Synod was a big deal in Dark Age England that happened in 664 where the Anglian kingdom of Northumbria chose to go with the practices of the Roman rather than the Celtic Church.
King Oswy of Northumbria gave Whitby to Abbess Hilda, who was so holy that when the birds fly over her Abbey they dip their wings in respect. The ruins of the Abbey you see, aren’t the Anglo-Saxon ones, but in fact a later Gothic abbey ruined by Henry VIII in 1538.
I think, like Glastonbury, Whitby has something magical about it, recognised in both places by the foundation of a Dark Age monastery, lots of legends, Goths and hippies gathering in numbers.
What Whitby has that Glastonbury doesn’t is Bram Stoker and Dracula (Glastonbury has John Cowper Powys’s Glastonbury Romance, but that’s not as widely known)
I photographed a tourist information plaque for the above, but if you look where the Dimitry came aground, you can easily see where it was on the photograph I took a couple of days ago.
Dracula : CHAPTER VI
MINA MURRAY’S JOURNAL
Above is looking to where the Demeter came aground from the seaward side.
24 July. Whitby.
Lucy met me at the station, looking sweeter and lovelier than ever, and we drove up to the house at the Crescent in which they have rooms. This is a lovely place. The little river, the
Esk, runs through a deep valley, which broadens out as it comes near the harbour. A great viaduct runs across, with high piers, through which the view seems somehow further away than it really is. The valley is beautifully green, and it is so steep that when you are on the high land on either side you look right across it, unless you are near enough to see down. The houses of the old town–the side away from us–are all red-roofed, and seem piled up one over the other anyhow, like the pictures we see of Nuremberg.
Right over the town is the ruin of Whitby Abbey, which was sacked by the Danes, and which is the scene of part of “Marmion,” where the girl was built up in the wall. It is a most noble ruin, of immense size, and full of beautiful and romantic bits; there is a legend that a white lady is seen in one of the windows.
Between it and the town there is another church, the parish one, round which is a big graveyard, all full of tombstones. This is to my mind the nicest spot in Whitby, for it lies right over the town, and has a full view of the harbour and all up the bay to where the headland called Kettleness stretches out into the sea. It descends so steeply over the harbour that part of the bank has fallen away, and some of the graves have been destroyed. In one place part of the stonework of the graves stretches out over the sandy pathway far below. There are walks, with seats beside them, through the churchyard; and people go and sit there all day long looking at the beautiful view and enjoying the breeze. I shall come and sit here very often myself and work. Indeed, I am writing now, with my book on my knee, and listening to the talk of three old men who are sitting beside me. They seem to do nothing all day but sit up here and talk.
The harbour lies below me, with, on the far side, one long granite wall stretching out into the sea, with a curve outwards at the end of it, in the middle of which is a lighthouse. A heavy sea-wall runs along outside of it. On the near side, the sea-wall makes an elbow crooked inversely, and its end too has a lighthouse. Between the two piers there is a narrow opening into the harbour, which then suddenly widens.
It is nice at high water; but when the tide is out it shoals away to nothing, and there is merely the stream of the Esk, running between banks of sand, with rocks here and there. Outside the harbour on this side there rises for about half a mile a great reef, the sharp edge of which runs straight out from behind the south lighthouse. At the end of it is a buoy with a bell, which swings in bad weather, and sends in a mournful sound on the wind. They have a legend here that when a ship is lost bells are heard out at sea. I must ask the old man about this; he is coming this way….
He is a funny old man. He must be awfully old, for his face is all gnarled and twisted like the bark of a tree. He tells me that he is nearly a hundred, and that he was a sailor in the Greenland fishing fleet when Waterloo was fought. He is, I am afraid, a very sceptical person, for when I asked him about the bells at sea and the White Lady at the abbey he said very brusquely:–
“I wouldn’t fash masel’ about them, miss. Them things be all wore out. Mind, I don’t say that they never was, but I do say that they wasn’t in my time. They be all very well for comers and trippers, an’ the like, but not for a nice young lady like you. Them feet-folks from York and Leeds that be always eatin’ cured herrin’s an’ drinkin’ tea an’ lookin’ out to buy cheap jet would creed aught. I wonder masel’ who’d be bothered tellin’ lies to them–even the newspapers, which is full of fool-talk.”
I thought he would be a good person to learn interesting things from, so I asked him if he would mind telling me something about the whale-fishing in the old days. He was just settling himself to begin when the clock struck six, whereupon he laboured to get up, and said:–
“I must gang ageeanwards home now, miss. My grand-daughter doesn’t like to be kept waitin’ when the tea is ready, for it takes me time to crammle aboon the grees, for there be a many of ’em; an’, miss, I lack belly-timber sairly by the clock.”
He hobbled away, and I could see him hurrying, as well as he could, down the steps. The steps are a great feature on the place. They lead from the town up to the church, there are hundreds of them–I do not know how many--and they wind up in a delicate curve; the slope is so gentle that a horse could easily walk up and down them. I think they must originally have had something to do with the abbey. I shall go home too. Lucy went out visiting with her mother, and as they were only duty calls, I did not go. They will be home by this.
* * *
I came up here an hour ago with Lucy, and we had a most interesting talk with my old friend and the two others who always come and join him. He is evidently the Sir Oracle of them, and I should think must have been in his time a most dictatorial person. He will not admit anything, and downfaces everybody. If he can’t out-argue them he bullies them, and then takes their silence for agreement with his views.
Lucy was looking sweetly pretty in her white lawn frock; she has got a beautiful colour since she has been here. I noticed that the old men did not lose any time in coming up and sitting near her when we sat down. She is so sweet with old people; I think they all fell in love with her on the spot. Even my old man succumbed and did not contradict her, but gave me double share instead.
I got him on the subject of the legends, and he went off at once into a sort of sermon. I must try to remember it and put it down:–
“It be all fool-talk, lock, stock, and barrel; that’s what it be, an’ nowt else. These bans an’ wafts an’ boh-ghosts an’ barguests an’ bogles an’ all anent them is only fit to set bairns an’ dizzy women a-belderin’.
They be nowt but air-blebs [A bleb is a blister] They, an’ all grims an’ signs an’ warnin’s, be all invented by parsons an’ illsome beuk-bodies [ Illsome Beuk-Bodies is you and me] an’ railway touters to skeer an’ scunner hafflin’s, an’ to get folks to do somethin’ that they don’t other incline to. It makes me ireful to think o’ them. Why, it’s them that, not content with printin’ lies on paper an’ preachin’ them out of pulpits, does want to be cuttin’ them on the tombstones. Look here all around you in what airt ye will; all them steans, holdin’ up their heads as well as they can out of their pride, is acant–simply tumblin’ down with the weight o’ the lies wrote on them, ‘Here lies the body’ or ‘Sacred to the memory’ wrote on all of them, an’ yet in nigh half of them there bean’t no bodies at all; an’ the memories of them bean’t cared a pinch of snuff about, much less sacred.
Lies all of them, nothin’ but lies of one kind or another! My gog, but it’ll be a quare scowderment at the Day of Judgment when they come tumblin’ up in their death-sarks, all jouped together an’ tryin’ to drag their tombsteans with them to prove how good they was; some of them trimmlin’ and ditherin’, with their hands that dozzened an’ slippy from lyin’ in the sea that they can’t even keep their grup o’ them.”
I could see from the old fellow’s self-satisfied air and the way in which he looked round for the approval of his cronies that he was “showing off,” so I put in a word to keep him going:–
“Oh, Mr. Swales, you can’t be serious. Surely these tombstones are not all wrong?”
“Yabblins! There may be a poorish few not wrong, savin’ where they make out the people too good; for there be folk that do think a balm-bowl be like the sea, if only it be their own. The whole thing be only lies. Now look you here; you come here a stranger, an’ you see this kirk-garth.”
I nodded, for I thought it better to assent, though I did not quite understand his dialect. I knew it had something to do with the church.
He went on: “And you consate that all these steans be aboon folk that be happed here, snod an’ snog?” I assented again. “Then that be just where the lie comes in. Why, there be scores of these lay-beds that be toom as old Dun’s ‘bacca-box on Friday night.” He nudged one of his companions, and they all laughed. “And my gog! how could they be otherwise? Look at that one, the aftest abaft the bier-bank: read it!” I went over and read:–
“Edward Spencelagh, master mariner, murdered by pirates off the coast of Andres, April, 1854, æt. 30.”
When I came back Mr. Swales went on:–
“Who brought him home, I wonder, to hap him here? Murdered off the coast of Andres! an’ you consated his body lay under! Why, I could name ye a dozen whose bones lie in the Greenland seas above”
He pointed northwards–“or where the currents may have drifted them. There be the steans around ye. Ye can, with your young eyes, read the small-print of the lies from here. This Braithwaite Lowrey–I knew his father, lost in the _Lively_ off Greenland in ’20; or Andrew Woodhouse, drowned in the same seas in 1777; or John Paxton, drowned off Cape Farewell a year later; or old John Rawlings, whose grandfather sailed with me, drowned in the Gulf of Finland in ’50. Do ye think that all these men will have to make a rush to Whitby when the trumpet sounds? I have me antherums aboot it! I tell ye that when they got here they’d be jommlin’ an’ jostlin’ one another that way that it ‘ud be like a fight up on the ice in the old days, when we’d be at one another from daylight to dark, an’ tryin’ to tie up our cuts by the light of the aurora borealis.” 
This was evidently local pleasantry, for the old man cackled over it, and his cronies joined in with gusto.
“But,” I said, “surely you are not quite correct, for you start on the assumption that all the poor people, or their spirits, will have to take their tombstones with them on the Day of Judgment. Do you think that will be really necessary?”
“Well, what else be they tombstones for? Answer me that, miss!”
“To please their relatives, I suppose.”
“To please their relatives, you suppose!” This he said with intense scorn. “How will it pleasure their relatives to know that lies is wrote over them, and that everybody in the place knows that they be lies?” He pointed to a stone at our feet which had been laid down as a slab, on which the seat was rested, close to the edge of the cliff. “Read the lies on that thruff-stean,“ he said.
The letters were upside down to me from where I sat, but Lucy was more opposite to them, so she leant over and read:–
“Sacred to the memory of George Canon, who died, in the hope of a glorious resurrection, on July, 29, 1873, falling from the rocks at Kettleness. This tomb was erected by his sorrowing mother to her dearly beloved son. ‘He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow.’
“Really, Mr. Swales, I don’t see anything very funny in that!” She spoke her comment very gravely and somewhat severely.
“Ye don’t see aught funny! Ha! ha! But that’s because ye don’t gawm the sorrowin’ mother was a hell-cat that hated him because he was acrewk’d–a regular lamiter he was–an’ he hated her so that he committed suicide in order that she mightn’t get an insurance she put on his life. He blew nigh the top of his head off with an old musket that they had for scarin’ the crows with. ‘Twarn’t for crows then, for it brought the clegs and the dowps to him. That’s the way he fell off the rocks. And, as to hopes of a glorious resurrection, I’ve often heard him say masel’ that he hoped he’d go to hell, for his mother was so pious that she’d be sure to go to heaven, an’ he didn’t want to addle where she was. Now isn’t that stean at any rate”–he hammered it with his stick as he spoke–“a pack of lies? and won’t it make Gabriel keckle when Geordie comes pantin’ up the grees with the tombstean balanced on his hump, and asks it to be took as evidence!”
I did not know what to say, but Lucy turned the conversation as she said, rising up:–
“Oh, why did you tell us of this? It is my favourite seat, and I cannot leave it; and now I find I must go on sitting over the grave of a suicide.”
“That won’t harm ye, my pretty; an’ it may make poor Geordie gladsome to have so trim a lass sittin’ on his lap. That won’t hurt ye. Why, I’ve sat here off an’ on for nigh twenty years past, an’ it hasn’t done me no harm. Don’t ye fash about them as lies under ye, or that doesn’ lie there either! It’ll be time for ye to be getting scart when ye see the tombsteans all run away with, and the place as bare as a stubble-field. There’s the clock, an’ I must gang. My service to ye, ladies!” And off he hobbled.
Lucy and I sat awhile, and it was all so beautiful before us that we took hands as we sat; and she told me all over again about Arthur and their coming marriage. That made me just a little heart-sick, for I haven’t heard from Jonathan for a whole month.
The same day
I came up here alone, for I am very sad. There was no letter for me. I hope there cannot be anything the matter with Jonathan. The clock has just struck nine. I see the lights scattered all over the town, sometimes in rows where the streets are, and sometimes singly; they run right up the Esk and die away in the curve of the valley. To my left the view is cut off by a black line of roof of the old house next the abbey. The sheep and lambs are bleating in the fields away behind me, and there is a clatter of a donkey’s hoofs up the paved road below. The band on the pier is playing a harsh waltz in good time, and further
along the quay there is a Salvation Army meeting in a back street. Neither of the bands hears the other, but up here I hear and see them both. I wonder where Jonathan is and if he is thinking of me! I wish he were here.
 I think they must have changed it, because even when it’s low tide, there’s still water in the harbour area and the river channel is not as obvious as it was in Stoker’s time.
 Stoker must have been poring over his Yorkshire dialect book. I recognise many of the words because we share them in Cumberland, but some are so old fashioned my grandmother wouldn’t have known them. “Fashm = worry” is considered Scottish now, but of course Scots and Northern English dialects are both descended from Northumbrian Old English and share vocabulary. In Scots this would be “I wouldnae fash masel”.
 Cured Herrings are Kippers! I got a lungful of smoke from the smokehouse when I was walking past it and it made me cough! Still, they taste nice.
 Whitby is famous for its jet and Church Street is lined with jewellers specialising in jet and silver jewellery.
 True dat.
 There is a pair of crossed whale bones on the West Cliff where the Whitby Ghost Walk starts at 7:30 pm. I’ve been on it before but it was too cold in January to do it again.
 I’ve no idea what crammlin about the grees means. Sounds nasty.
 Theres’s 199. A big sign at the bottom says it. Dunno how Stoker missed that one.
 Boggle, a word in the north of England and Southern Scotland for a spirit. There is a Boggle Hole near Robin Hood’s Bay just about 7 miles south of Whitby. Apparently in the late 1970s the Whitby Conclave of magicians did magic rituals there. There’s a youth hostel there now. The two things are not connected I’m sure. Boh-ghosts is related to Boggart – another dialect word. The first element Bog also in Goblin seems to be related to the Slavonic for god – bog, bozh. A spirit. Boggle is also a word in my dialect for snot. Bougers, Bugbears. Spirits and Snot.
 Surely = scolding.
 Sark is an old word for shirt, here shroud.
 Stones with palatalisation. Styans.
 Church yard. This is most likely Norse rather than English.
 Bram’s making the point that suicides are buried here. And we will remember from previous posts that because suicide is a sin, that suicides are potential hosts for vampirism.
 A thruff-stean is a through stone and when you are building a dry stone wall you lay it athwart (I’m getting into the swing of archaic words now) that is sideways on, through the wall.
 I think he’s gone too far with this. However, I saw something at Whitby that I’d never seen. There were padlocks on the fence beside the graveyard and also at the foot of the cliff where the path goes onto the pier and some at the end of the pier. I’ve seen padlocks on walls, in Paris and Verona and recently in Krakow to indicate undying love. There were bunches of flowers also and I think people were just remembering their loved ones there. I don’t think they’d died there. When we were at the top, while I was figuring this out, some passers by said that the flowers were to remember those who’d jumped off the cliff into the sea. I guess some did it but there was an awful lot of flowers there…
 Related to “keek” = look, Dutch kyk
 He’s foreshadowing Dracula here. I just knows it.
 He’s got other things to think about just now way over in Transylvania.