Northern Lights- Whitby and the Isle of Arran

Northern Lights- Whitby and the Isle of Arran.

We all know that Britain is blessed with some of the most breathtaking countryside. On a late August family break away from it all, we re-discovered why the tourist boards of every county, shire, town and village in dear old Blighty could rightly point to those jaw-dropping, eye popping, aesthetically remarkable sights and sounds and puff out their chests.

 Here we found Britain's  towering grandeur, its timeless beauty and a landscape that was fabulously fetching, its comely shapes and curves a pleasure to watch. There was an enduring sense of perfect proportion about St Helens buildings that make it one of  the most lovable places in Britain to visit when autumn whistles around its blustery corners, nooks and crannies.

We arrived in St Helens to see our son and his girlfriend, to find that this most robust of rugby league heartlands in the best of health. We were treated with the most impeccable hospitality and promptly settled in for the night. It was now that we realised that the Northern Lights of England were still shining brightly, comfortably nestling next to these closely knit, back to back terraced houses, windswept car parks, warmly inviting supermarkets and the pub which was to be our intended location for that evening.

That evening St Helens rugby league side were playing a meaningless end of season game which looked as though it might have been won judging by the loud cheers that finally accompanied St Helens victory. There is a richly industrial solidity and traditionalism that has never really left this quaint corner of Northern England. St Helens is strong and perfectly capable of looking after itself and the rugby league enthusiasts have never lost their voice or sense of loyalty.

The following morning we all set out for the Knowsley Safari Park, one of those spaciously beautiful parts of the North West of England that held the eyes totally transfixed and hypnotised by nature at her most peaceful and restful. Sometimes you can travel across large swathes of any country and not find anything so pleasing on the eye, so utterly graceful and totally natural, so right and proper, so pure and calming to the soul.

Firstly, there were the long necked giraffes, languidly wandering and roaming around, animals almost arrogantly aware of their height and never for a minute breaking sweat. There were the delightful sea lions in splendidly exhibitionist mood. In a laugh a minute show before an upbeat audience of children and the family Arthur and Roger, the cheeky double act with the most contagious sense of humour, clapped their flippers together hilariously  as if on cue and with a unique understanding of what they were supposed to be doing. Apparently Arthur was the naughtier of the two sea lions so remember where you read that first.

Then it was off to bonny Scotland where my wife, son and girlfriend were taken back to their respective childhoods. Deep on the Ayrshire coast a Havens holiday camp was the setting for another few days of eyes down bingo, flashing lights, tinkling machines and the sheer vividness of the modern amusement arcade, leaving me slightly overcome and very old. Holiday camps are very much where it all started with our kids but there was a sense here of deja vu, a sense of revisiting somewhere where it would have been easy to just forget that you were 20 years younger. Then your kids were lively athletes with all the unbounded energy that kids seem to have in abundance.

Let me point out to you immediately that an ageing dad had now been severely handicapped by a series of injuries. Firstly the crown in my teeth just came tumbling out of my mouth as if it had endured one too many toffees in the car. This would have been regarded as a minor setback had it not been for the fact that another misfortune was about to head my way without any prompting. If only I'd had some prior warning.

Sadly, this was not to be the entirely relaxing break I was hoping for. On arrival in Scotland it suddenly occurred to me that my foot and ankle were not working in tandem, a sharp spasm of pain shooting up my legs and more or less rendering me completely incapable of walking properly for the best part of  two days or so. It was all vaguely embarrassing as a brief session of hopping turned into an amusing display of hopping, dragging of the feet and a shameful inability to put one foot in front of the other.

But I survived and did what any crocked father would probably have done under the circumstances. I grinned and grimaced, occasionally crying out with an anguished yelp when no medicine seemed to have the desired effect. Firstly, there were the reliable Paracetamol followed by a comforting foot spray which did nothing and if anything compounded the problem.

And so it was that we carried on. Saturday afternoon was spent traipsing around the local supermarket. In a constantly dispiriting day of rain and then drizzle we made our way back home wondering whether anything could possibly lift our grumpy despondency. It wasn't the worst afternoon we could have spent but the mind went back to those bump and grind wrestling contests on TV over 40 years

. It was a time when those Northern town halls hosted some of the most gripping grapple fests ever seen on British TV. Would it ever make a comeback? The sight of those sweaty and vastly overweight wrestlers throwing each other up into the air before crushing and trampling over them with the most horrendous clump still sends the proverbial shiver up your spine. But it was all good, clean fun and we did enjoy the spectacle because we knew in our heart of hearts that nobody had really been hurt and at the end the likes of Giant Haystacks and Big Daddy were just larking around. These were indeed days of complete innocence when nobody seemed to take anything that seriously.

On the Sunday afternoon we all decided to make a real day of it. The weather was kind and gracious, overcast for most of the day and occasionally suggesting torrential downpours but we were not to be daunted. We headed for what was undoubtedly one of the most pleasant and civilised places on Earth. It was gentle, undemanding, spiritually satisfying and deeply enjoyable. It was the kind of place where you simply wanted the day to last for ever but knew it wouldn't because there were only so many hours in the day.

The Isle of Arran was Scotland's most purple of jewels, a diamond encrusted island with scenery that looked as though it had been painted by the most gifted watercolourist. As the rest of the family wrestled with the intricacies of what looked like the biggest crazy golf course on the planet, your eyes were transported by the most outstanding mountain range it has ever been my privilege to watch and admire.

With small parcels of darkening cloud gathering together their forces overhead you suddenly encountered immaculately drawn outlines of mountains and rocks that seem to be perched on an artists canvas rather than the mainland. There it was carefully pencilled into the background, the contours of the land rising and soaring into the air before dropping almost seamlessly into a lovely, jagged dip into the far distance. It felt as though somebody had given me the keys to some wondrous British paradise where everything is unspoilt, untouched and still the same as it ever was.

Then the peace was abruptly stopped. High up in the Scottish sky the seagulls were up to their usual mischief, flying high and then suddenly falling like genuinely soft flakes of snow. It was now that I began to notice the sheer size of nature's most carefree birds. Now I've no idea what exactly they've been feeding these gulls but it did seem that most of them had eaten rather too many plates of meat pie and chips for anybody's liking. They seem to stand there motionless and still, waiting patiently for goodness knows what. To all outward appearances these birds were enormous, monumental and almost frighteningly large at times.

We were now on our way to Gretna Green famously referred as that place all couples elope to in order to be married. We quietly made our way indoors to be confronted with the familiar history of Gretna Green, two very strikingly old fashioned wedding carriages and that very intimate room where marital life begins for the newly weds. In hushed silence we tiptoed around the museums and very different rooms where brightly coloured tartan kilts sit next to glamorous presentations of more tartan and tempting tins of Scottish shortbread.

Back we headed to a friend of ours in the now celebrated Yorkshire town of Redcar once renowned for its TV racecourse over four decades ago. There were no stables or horses to be seen nor those heavy breathing paddocks where our equine friends love to hang out in. Redcar has the most impressive seaside feel but on the day we were there the beach was now deserted after the long and hot summer of Britain 2018.

 There were one or two isolated rock pools but the sea did look as if it was huffing and puffing its way to the shore. A couple of kids gleefully shrieked but Redcar looked like a child who had temporarily lost its parents. The summer had now gone and Redcar was waving a fond farewell to the gold-plated summer heatwave. For the first time in ages Redcar was yearning for long forgotten sunshine and romantically hoping that sooner or later it would come back.

So it was that we finally set off to our last port of call. Roughly an hour or so away was Whitby, one of the busiest and most contented of all seaside towns with much to commend it. Essentially, Whitby is one of Yorkshire's prettiest of fishing havens. Wherever you look there were boats and more boats, yachts bobbing agreeably in the late summer sunlight and trawlers with bumper crops of mackerel, cod, trout and skate. Bunched together with thick netting, salty faced fishermen flung their ropes out into barely rippling seas.

Before we left Whitby we had to watch what felt like one of the most attractive sights that Whitby had to offer. Suddenly and without quite being prepared for it, two very smartly dressed formations of Morris dancers stood smiling and waiting for their moment. Before you could blink, the Morris dancers skipped and jigged merrily for our delectation. They engaged in what looked like one of those County and Western line dances that you couldn't help but be enchanted by. With tiny bells strapped to their ankles, they tapped their wooden sticks together before weaving their way in and out of each other, circling once and then going through the same procedure again and again.

This had been the great folk week at Whitby and how joyous that had been. If this is what happens in England towards the end of a mid August day then you'll have to make sure that we might consider a return visit. Folk music has always been criminally overlooked and unfairly ridiculed by a few as some odd piece of British culture.

 But this was different. For a moment you were totally taken by Morris dancers from Nottingham and Morris dancers from another part of the country. This seemed like the World Cup of the Morris dancing world and the competition, although friendly, had something that was indefinably British about it; understated, modest, deliciously diverting and appealing. Somebody told me that this yearly ritual dated back to the early 19th century and could only be appreciated by good Yorkshire folk by the seaside.

It was time now to head back home to North London where there is, regrettably, no tartan, no bottles of whisky, no seaside gulls the size of a house and no sign of a rugby league team of any known provenance. There were no fishing trawlers huddling next to rocky outcrops nor mountain ranges that somehow defied superlatives.

We were home from our brief trip up North with confirmations of things we'd always read about but never thought we'd see again in the foreseeable future at least. Northern Britain is alive and well, flourishing and there as a permanent reminder of a Britain that does indeed seem to possess an air of constancy and permanence about it.

Looking over at the steelworks that Redcar was so proudly thought of as part of its treasured heritage, there was a thin line of once thriving chimneys. Now though times are hard for Redcar and although the dark spectre of poverty has now gone, unemployment has once again reared its ugly head again.

But we were home and back again in  the seething hustle and bustle of London suburbia where the traffic still inches forward lethargically and slowly like a tortoise while the City sprints around the capital desperately searching for some elusive financial goldmine. They say travel always broadens the mind but when the Northern lights come calling we shall be back on your fair isle. Oh for the joys of Northern England.