A second x-ray at Lincoln Hospital confirmed my foot was healing nicely, so we decided to make another visit to our caravan. The weather was mixed but mostly kind; the rain mainly only visited overnight. Here are journal entries written while we were there.
I was woken at 4:30 a.m. by gentle precipitation on the skylights of the caravan. It wasn’t thundering down - its tip-tap rhythm was so soporific I’m not sure how it had roused me. I quickly drifted back to dreamland.
I hope the little lizard is okay after the fire burned most of his home away.
A few hours later, the rain had picked up a bit. I told him about the tip-tapping overnight but MTM said it sounded more like the local wildlife were having a barn dance on the roof! When a gusty wind joined in, it turned into the soap cycle of a full-on car wash! But inside our little bolt-hole, we felt warm, dry, and cosy. I love it here.
After the drama of the recent moorland fires, it seemed only fair to let the rain soothe the damage. As the tide went out, the sun made a welcome appearance and the rain dissipated.
I’m more mobile now and can manage short walks on firm, even surfaces. I’m off the crutches, my injured foot can bear weight, and I’m just using a walking stick for support. Bumpy footpaths or sandy beaches were off-limits for this visit — after all, I’m still wearing my “Darth Vader” boot.
I did manage one outing into Whitby, though it had to be very carefully planned. We parked close to the harbour, knowing the Fish Box wasn’t far for lunch. Sitting outside, we listened to the chatter and bustle of the quayside — a lovely way to feel part of the town without too much effort.
The main aim of the day was to reach Holman’s Bookshop, which has a great selection of stationery. I needed some squared paper for crochet design ideas I wanted to sketch while still fresh in my mind.
It was relatively quiet for Whitby, which I appreciated. On previous visits, the town had occasionally felt oppressive when crowded. On a late September Monday, though, it was pleasant and easy to move through the streets. People were about, but not uncomfortably packed.
It seemed to take an age to climb (and later descend) the steep slope of Flowergate. The tall buildings on either side of the narrowest section made it feel like a secret passage to the upper town. The cobbles underfoot were mercifully even, giving me time to appreciate the small independent shops, galleries, bakeries, and quirky fudge or Whitby jet stores — far more “local” in feel than the harbour front which is dominated by the Co-op and some new building works.
By the time we turned onto Skinner Street, the walk had flattened out. Clinging to MTM’s arm, he joked that our slow progress reminded him of walking with his mum when she was in her eighties. It gave me a fresh perspective on the challenges faced by people with mobility restrictions — and gratitude that mine are temporary.
Inevitably we spent more time in the car than we would usually.
The burnt moorland was sad to see, but nature has already begun her slow regenerative work.
MTM made his escape from my restrictions for a couple of solo walks. The footpath we had walked a few short weeks before only re-opened to the public on the 28th September.
I stayed behind in the caravan awning, happily crocheting for a few hours and listening to Bold as Love by Gwyneth Jones — an almost dystopian near-future novel where rock stars rule and violent, armed eco-warriors are roaming England. Scotland, Wales and Ireland have all been left to their own devices.
The first thing MTM set out to find was the little Christmas tree I’d been fretting over.
I was ridiculously happy to hear it had survived, despite one of the burnt areas coming perilously close.
Many trees and shrubs were less fortunate.
The footpath, with its hard-trodden surface, had in places helped contain the flames’ spread.
This boardwalk spans a boggy area. When we walked over it before the fire, we startled a striped lizard basking in the sun. It flitted out of sight too fast for a photograph, but remains a precious memory
By the time we packed up for the journey back to the East Midlands, I felt quietly triumphant. I’d survived Flowergate (albeit slowly, with MTM’s arm for support), admired the moor’s slow recovery, and even found time to lose myself in crochet and audiobooks. MTM had his solo adventures, I had mine, and our little Christmas tree stood resolute against all odds. It was a gentle reminder that, like the moor, life mends itself — one cobble, one stitch, one careful step at a time
