Gluttons for punishment 2

Eye mask? Check. Earplugs? Check and...(fumble around in the dark)...check. Wadded-up sweaty T-shirt for a pillow? Check. With comforts like these, who can resist camping?

I must have passed out in a stupor at some point because I remember dreaming about a downpour, only to awake to find the inside of tent dripping with condensation. The flocked inflatable mattress was much more comfortable than sleeping mats, if a bit chilly, but the inflatable pillows were a complete flop. Come morning and Christian was delirious with exhaustion: "I officially hate camping. We'll stay in a hostel. Bunk beds, socks on the radiator, boil-in-the-bag rice. I don't give a shit."

And so after packing up the tent and our gear in a drizzle, then walking the mile or so back into downtown Scarborough, we treated ourselves to a hot breakfast and pot of tea while sitting on chairs that had more than three legs and didn't fold in half. We had passed a couple of camping shops that were open, so I made Christian a proposition: we could either call into a camping supply store and buy ourselves new pillows, or we could enquire in Whitby about staying in a B&B. Christian latched onto my suggestion like a drowning man clutches at straw.

First though, we had time for a look around Scarborough. It was overcast and drizzly,

 

 

 

 

enlivened slightly by bits of bunting in anticipation for the royal wedding that day.

 

 

The church was shut, so we headed up to the castle which proved more impressive from below than when stood inside. The long curtain walls enclosed a largely featureless grassy space atop the headland. The keep was a ruined shell. Fair enough, it is nearly 1000 years old and was pounded heavily by what was then the country's largest cannon during the English Civil War in 1645.

 Although the views were good, we felt the full brunt of the strong wind blowing off the North Sea.

It felt more like winter than the middle of spring and the thought of hot running water, fluffy blankets and a flush toilet spurred us down to the bus station for the trip up the coast to Whitby.