Pack your modern-day bow and arrow (or just a camera) because we're heading to Robin Hood's Bay for smugglers, sea views and stories
Words & pictures ❚ Carol Kubicki
The red-roofed houses of Robin Hood’s Bay lean against each other for support, each one striving to stop their neighbours tumbling into the North Sea. Held together by a net of narrow paths and steps that traverse and climb the hillsides around King’s Beck, this former fishing village is so picturesque it hardly seems real. And yet this wasn’t built as an attraction or theme park, it was built for people to live and work in.
Wind your way between the cottages and you find streets ghosted with souls from the past, and behind the gaily painted front doors are cherished homes. Hidden beneath the cobbles and behind the stone walls are secret cubbyholes and passageways from the centuries when this isolated place was a smugglers' haven.
Fishing was a legitimate activity and villagers loaded panniers with the fish and stepped out over the moors to markets. In 1885 the railways arrived in Robin Hood’s Bay, making it accessible for visitors, and the tourist-welcoming village we enjoy today began to develop.
From our west coast home, we are in North Yorkshire before we have even cracked open the mint imperials, but it is a big county to cross and, on our way to Robin Hood’s Bay, we took a break in Knaresborough. We jumped out of our campervan, keen to reacquaint ourselves with this historic town that sits on a gorge of the River Nidd.
Walking underneath the airy elegance of the arches that carry the railway across the river, red kites circled overhead. A squirrel, exploiting the detritus ditched by visitors, amused us. Netting draped over the crumbling cliffs will trap both falling rocks and litter and the squirrel acrobatically searched for food, particularly interested in the dregs from a can of cider!
The climb to the castle ruins and town raised my heart rate before we bagged a table in Blind Jack’s in the market square. The wooden floors of this cosy pub, soaked with years of beer, led us into a room smaller than the average sitting room, with colourful lanterns strung around the ceiling. Bizarre prints, combining old masters with modern-day objects such as jets and bubble gum, hung on the walls.
We couldn’t linger long as we wanted to reach the east coast before nightfall. Whereas the Lancashire coast is characterised by long evenings filled
