we’ll always have Whitby

Every year, the first weekend in February takes me back to 2004, when I squeezed onto a bus with about 40 other people, and rode from Oxford all the way up to Whitby, on the North Sea.

Beautiful, ruined Whitby Abbey sits at the top of 199 steps leading down into the little fishing village. It is COLD up on that windswept hill – but oh my, the ruins are gorgeous. And if the wind didn’t take your breath away, the views certainly would. Looking out east, all you can see is the North Sea and sky – “just things that God made,” as my friend Blake said. Though what man has made here is certainly lovely.

The abbey dates from the seventh century, and on our first night there, three friends and I walked up the hill – right past the “No Public Access” sign – and spent a happy hour climbing on the ruins in the dark. The top of the arch on the far left in the photo was the “Arch of Ambition” – and I actually climbed up there! (Not bad for someone who used to fear heights.) We eventually heard voices behind us, and panicked when they belonged to two of our professors – but we didn’t get a scolding. Instead, they joined us for a little while! – before we all headed back, cold and tired, but happy.

This is the four of us the next morning, on our approved visit to the abbey:

(From left: Brett, me, Charity and Seth. We called ourselves the “Fearsome Four” – and I’ve treasured that adventure, and this photo, ever since.)

Two years ago, I returned to Whitby with the Oxford Spring ’08 gang – Jacque, the Wiggins clan, and a new gaggle of students. And oh my, it was wonder all over again.

Here’s a view of the village from the hill:

I can’t explain what it is about Whitby that captivates me. Maybe it’s the unspoiled quality, at least in February when there are no other tourists about. Maybe it’s the simplicity of the stark abbey ruins rising out of the ground – nothing up there but sea and sky and stone. Maybe it’s the quaintness of the steep streets, or tea and scones in little tearooms, or the memories of walking along the beach one night, and the students spontaneously bursting into song. Maybe it’s the feeling of being in a “thin place” – where the boundary between heaven and earth seems almost to disappear. Probably it’s a little of all these.

When our spring ’04 group was mourning about having to leave Oxford, Ron Morgan (our director) reassured us, “We’ll always have Whitby.” And we did – and do, and will forever. And I am extra lucky, because I got to have it again, with a new group of students and dear friends. And every year on the first weekend in February, I close my eyes and remember the wind on my face, the vivid greens and blues of the grass and sky, the sunset colours over the harbour, and the quiet joy of long walks with good friends.

I fully intend on going back someday. But you were right, Ron. We’ll always have Whitby.

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