Whitby

I initially had optimism that our journey would not be hampered by "strangers", but each coastal resort became a stage platform, an affront encroaching exploitation of presence; a reanimation seemingly liberating for them but as usual, an unwelcome decimation for us. Hungry we pulled into a A68 roadside café, about two miles east of Byrness village.

Our first place of interest was inland, a Victorian history museum named Beamish. We turned away from the museum's ticket office, noticing a £25 each entrance fee because the price exceeded our limited budget. Charlie would have enjoyed this museum.

We drove south to Seaham; I was bewildered to find people beach combing for diamonds, a beach comber defined as glass. Charlie believes the beach combers regularly arrive after storms; observing this rabble scrabble a rock song by WASP: "I wanna fist full of diamonds" entered my mind, but perhaps they were also searching for Jet.

Filming the choppy sea, my camera, mounted onto a small tripod, was tipped over my a small wave. It was a relief to know my iPhone 14 is waterproof; however, the charging point became damp. Bizarrely, the back of the iPhone was encircled by a ring [around the logo] of what appeared to be rough particles of magnetic iron.

Leaving the beach.

Seaham was busy, as we reached the harbour the weather calmed; through a metal gate I ascended steps onto the harbour wall and took a video of crashing plumes of white waves against Seaham's concrete harbour wall.

We rested at Teesmouth National Nature Reserve, to the right of us was Hartlepool Nuclear Power Station. Nuclear power has a history of being safe and unsafe, but isn't it a crazy assumption, expecting somebody to tend to a fire that'll burn itself out only after a supposed half life of 24,100 years? And then there is smouldering decay plutonium-238, 239 and uranium 234, 235. Will we as a human race still exist then?

Flying a protective sense of national pride, perseverance of brutalised and alienated national identity; yet all other nation flags, foreign to our people fly unabated, even raised by civic administrations across this here country of England, though in earlier times before "backdoor multiculturalism", historically condemned as an act of treason.

British, notably white English people get attacked by disturbed cultural Marxists for flying the English flag in England; however Scottish, Welsh and Cornish flags are raised without Politically Correct condemnation; as are other flags from foreign countries of the world.

Dusk began to settle as we travelled over a northern ring road by Middlesborough. Initially we had planned to pre-book bed and breakfast accommodation but chose to keep our travel plan secret, we thought better to book at the door. The accommodation I discovered via google maps in Robin Hood bay was full, there was also a music band playing there that night. We agreed to sleep in the car for a night, rather than spend £130+ on a small room for a mere several hours.

Returning from Robin Hood bay, Charlie wanted to visit the ruined abbey south of Whitby. I took a photograph from along a footpath, arriving from the abbey's car park.

We enjoyed coffee and cake at the abbeys YHA cafe. Finding a long stay car park near to Whitby's railway station, we walked towards toward the sea; from along the harbour side, noticing a floating restaurant.

The sun had set by the time we arrived at the bay. The chilling dusk wind blew tort expression across the harbour.

Along the harbour I was mocked by a family member groomed into revulsion by the "strangers"; although I received the insult I kept my head up and ignored the remarks. We found a fish and chip shop, a ten-minute walk from the harbour, although the chips were greasy the fish was fresh. The frier had won many awards, and the counter service was responsive and civil.

Returning towards the harbour bridge I noticed a pub named "middle earth" on the swinging board hung "Golem" from Lord of the Rings. Saturday evening was becoming obnoxious, triggering hyper-vigilance and anxiety, so we departed from Whitby, choosing to find a quiet village pub somewhere on the North Yorkshire moors. After enjoying a pint we parked our 4x4 by a scenic viewpoint but was spotted and encroached by a passing car. Charlie fired up the 4x4, and drove quiet lanes towards Scotch Corner A1/A66 junction.