Day 3 in Whitby. Feels like I've been here for ages. Folks are starting to sound normal. How quickly the mind adapts, I don't even notice the accents anymore. I think I am one of five Americans here among thousands of folkies and vacationers. My language habits are already changing, perhaps to avoid the snickers. I’m on holiday, not vacation. And I work at University, not college. I wait in a cue to get into places, a router is pronounced rooter, and things that are not good are rubbish. My words are changing without even thinking about it.
A lot of opposites here. Things that are up are down and pushes are pulls. Light switches are upside-down, doors always seem to swing the opposite way that I expect. All in all though, when strolling about, which I have done a lot of, I have to remind myself I am in a foreign land.
Barbara, Andy and I left for Whitby Saturday morning, stopping at a the Brough Castle in Cumbria. Stunning views of the countryside and just knocked out being in and touching such old stone, imagining life in this castle in its time. The sheep wandering about everywhere, freely, even on the playgrounds.
We arrived around 3pm and quickly ran into Dick and Susan, Bill Sabes, Folkie Dave, Linda and Pistachio. Whitby is striking the first time you lay eyes on it. The Abby in the distance, the port, the regatta, the town built into the hillsides around it. It was a fantastic sunny day, just making it a perfect introduction.
Barbara and Andy got settled in their pad, with award winning views of the harbor, and soon I made it over to where I was staying, across the river with Dick and Susan. I just dropped my suitcase off and split, eager to jump into this town and figure her out. I set out on foot intent to walk every street, down the piers, onto the beaches, up and down, round and round. I think I damn near did.
I found a cute little outdoor café and stopped to have a cappuccino and some dinner. Tiger prawns and Crayfish with potatoes and toast bits, and a pot of tea. Lovely, lovely, lovely.
Whitby Folk Week is amazing. Very much like folk events I’ve been to in the US, like Folk College and The FSGW Getaway, but on a scale that is wholly unbelievable. Folkies take over this whole seaside town for an entire week, 10 workshops, concerts, pub sings are going on at any given moment around the clock. The choices are impossible.
Whitby reminds me of a Maine coastal town. It is a familiar port town. Perhaps like Belfast or Camden Maine with a touch of the consumerism or tourism of Ocean City, Maryland.
Saturday night, I chose the Festival Folk Club at the Conservative Club, I think because I heard there was an American performing. Ran into a very old friend in Jon McKenzie, and enjoyed the show very much. The American, Jeff Warner, impressed the hell out of me and was a pleasure to meet following the show.
As Saturday came to an end, I got to do one of my favorite things to do in this whole wide world: Bullshit with Dick Greenhaus. We stayed up half the night telling stories and exchanging ideas as to what awesome things we’ll do next. I relish those moments, and actually take notes so not to forget the things he tells me.
Sunday was another beautiful, sunny day. Dick made breakfast, and I had my first English bacon, and I headed off to a Blues Workshop. Very well attended and Roger Sutcliffe floored me with Brownie McGhee’s Sporting Life Blues.
I stuck around to see Tom Paley and an American Music Session then headed off to the beach for a snooze, then more wandering, determined to find a wifi signal so I could check in. After much wandering with my phone in my hand, looking like a weirdo no doubt, I finally asked a local kid what the scoop was. He told me about a couple of pubs that would give me the code if I asked “the guy behind the bar” and The Art House Café where I sit now.
After dinner, missing Barbara and Andy already, they were kind enough to pick me up and take me to The Rugby Club for a concert. The simply sick harmonies of the Grace Notes with the special appearance of Lucy Wright (a Jews Harp virtuoso and clearly an angel), the impeccable musicianship of Minstrel Show Banjo from 1880 to 1920 – Rob Murch, and what must be the finest melodeon/concertina player in the world John Kirkpatrick was so good, I’d have come all the way here just for that.
It finally rained here today, so I skipped a couple of workshops to come have tea and write all this. Just now as I sit here, Mrs. Duck has just texted me to head over to a pub to meet them and see some Morris Dancing, so I’m off. Much more to come.
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