Scabby

I've been told that I witter. I can't confirm or deny that as I'm too close to the subject. I hadn't realised that wittering has a geographical aspect: namely, the further north you go the more you witter. I'm a born and bred Yellowbelly - even the short journey north to Hull (30km) is enough to go from minor to moderate wittering. However journey a further 50km north to Scarborough and there it becomes full blown witterosis. "See that puddle there: there's no drains. .. and in this bit of rain ... witter witter ..."

I wonder if witter is a comparative of wit: wit, witter, wittest - though the last doesn't exist - however Scarborough certainly does - and that's where I found a well spring of witterers.

So there I was in Scarborough again. I don't know how long it's been. And it's a surprise to see what such a nice place it is. Long beach surrounded by cliffs. On one a castle, the other a spa. They've been drinking smelly spa water here since 1626 - perhaps a cause of wittering ?

Students hang around on the beach trying to look mean and moody wearing shades, but it doesn't wash here while fat Bolton-ites and Leeds-onians mill around clutching dripping ice creams. Tip: if you want to be a tragic film star live in LA: Yorkshire is too down to earth.

An Indian family playing cricket in a mixture of Hindi and midlands English dressed in a mixture of saris and halter tops and jeans. Kids walking around with sand in their eyes. 1000-a-side football. Volleyball. This is the reality. This is how a seaside resort should be. The world and his wife may go to Spain and Florida, but this is where seaside resorts began. It's a chilling thought to think what this small town has inflicted on the world through the spread of its day trip tourism.

Overpriced food, rock and winkle stalls. Donkeys looking like extras from a spaghetti western and weighed down with the sorrows of the world - otherwise known as Kylie and Trisha: 5 year-olds from Bradford. The constant sound of seagulls to remind you of who is really boss here.

A constant parade of frustrated cars trying to find a parking space moving past garish amusement arcades with dubious bingo callers: "One and er one - er - eleven" shouting out onto the street to indifferent passers-by. Motorised lifts moving up and down the cliff like oversized supermarket trolleys on a tiled roof.

Yes, this is it: the seaside as it should be. A family picking their way through tidal pools, myself eating cockles and mussels. Looking upwards to see the castle looming like the prow of a supertanker above. The scent of seaweed in the air. The wash of waves on the shingle mixed with the drone of powerboats and the mewing of gulls. Ships slope past on the horizon heading to who knows where.

And there amongst all this modernity and noise is a rock with ancient ripples moulded into its surface, now filled with brown rock. The ancient seabed has been brought up and is now becoming another modern seabed. Its hard to get a grip of the timescale here. You get the impression that all is so fragile with the constant erosion of the cliffs, yet as I pass a rock, thousands of springtails - doing their thing long before the first creatures crawled onto the land - dive for safety like a squadron of SAS abseilers down the algae covered boulders.

Which reminds me: I slipped on some slippery rock and nearly broke my leg, well not quite, but I've got a nasty bruise ... witter ... witter ...

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