Memories of Robin Hood’s Bay.

The setting of Robin Hood’s Bay, the little old fishing village just south of Whitby on the North Yorkshire Coast was one of the key inspirations for “The Little Church By the Sea” and it’s a place I’ve been visiting all my life.

When I was little, I used to be taken to “Bay” to visit a friend of my mother’s who lived in one of the the new houses at the top of the bank. I loved the view from her garden over the village to beach and the bay beyond, and I especially loved going to visit in the winter when the weather was stormy, but it was cosy in her house looking out over the sweep of the bay.

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I also loved the old village with its twisting paths and cottages – we went to see the ancient little cottage that had once belonged to this friend’s family before they moved up the bank – it had her name on the front door back then (and probably still does) but the utter impracticality of living in a cottage with no vehicular access meant that the family cottage had been sold and she and her family now lived in a new house with all mod-cons – and parking! Very few of the cottages in the old village are still lived in, most are holiday cottages, and even fewer (if any) are lived in by the families who had owned them for generations and after whom many are named. Something about the story of the cottage with her name on the door that they had had to leave stuck in my mind – and came out again when I started thinking about a setting for my story.

I had always harboured a secret yearning to live in one of those pretty little cottages – and still do, if I’m honest, despite the impracticality – but if I can’t do it, then at least my heroine can!

 

Opening doors.

Thank you to Angela Harrison for the stunning images of Robin Hood’s Bay used in this post.

Where do you get your ideas from?

It’s a common question authors get asked, though nobody has actually asked me yet, but I’m expecting that at some point somebody will! So I’ve been preparing my answer and here it is.

Places. For some reason, with everything that I have written so far, an idea of place has been strong and has started the story. A single image began this one – I was writing something entirely different, when I took my characters in that plot to a seaside village for a day out in the winter. I found myself thinking about the little fishing villages on the Yorkshire coast near where I live – Runswick, Robin Hood’s Bay, Whitby, Staithes … and an image popped into my head. A small cottage in one of the crooked alleyways, with an anchor door knocker and a Christmas wreath. In the original story my characters walked past the cottage and commented on how pretty it was, but my imagination started asking, who would live in a cottage like that? The first novel never got written, but from that one simple image the whole village of Rawscar and its inhabitants grew. angela rhb cottage

People. The other main inspiration for The Little Church by the Sea was the character of my heroine, Cass, the vicar of Rawscar. Like Rawscar itself, Cass sprung from one very simple moment – her opening words. “Shit,” said the vicar. From the start, I knew that Cass had an inner conflict between her religious ideals and the reality of the world she lives in and that she doesn’t always know how to deal with it – and she doesn’t always get it right.

At the heart of this is Cass’s ideal of celibacy. All her life she has believed that sex outside marriage is wrong – and as she has never been married …. So when she falls for Hal, an attractive man who has “slept with half the women in the village” what should she do?

Well, you’ll have to read the book, coming out in November, to find out!

Angela RHB red door

 

 

We’re all going on a summer holiday!

It’s summer, and “Big Blue” the family VW Camper Van (who isn’t very big and isn’t entirely blue either) is on the road.

In my imagination, and in the romantic novel I would write about it, this is how a camper van based glamping weekend would go: Married couple arrive at a beautiful little campsite beside the sea/a stream/a lake where they relax in the sun: drinking wine, eating locally produced artisan food cooked over a small campfire and they rediscover the delights of each other’s company in the bucolic surroundings, whilst helping the young couple in the next campsite pitch learn about love and camping at the same time.

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What actually happens on one of our campervan holidays is this:

We arrive at the campsite, which is already waterlogged from the previous month’s downpour, and put up the awning, in the rain, as the children refuse to help and demand to go to the nearest amusement arcade NOW. The children get bored while we put up the awning. They fight. I shout at them.

We drive 20 miles looking for a shop that sells locally produced artisan food, and find the Spar at the local garage just next to the campsite is our best option after all. Oh well, at least we can guarantee that the kids will actually eat their Mr. Kipling’s cakes and Ginster’s pasties.

We take an instant dislike to the family on the next campsite pitch, whose child  spends the entire weekend kicking a football at the campervan while his parents and their friends drink cheap cans of lager and sing karaoke (despite the campsite’s “no noise” rule).

It’s still raining, so there is to be no campfire tonight. We walk to the pub for a meal instead. The locals stare at us in hostility. Perhaps it’s the offensive odour of dampness that my coat has started to give off already.

We sleep, badly, as the karaoke continues until midnight and then we are woken at about 2 am by the thunderstorm from hell. The awning leaks in said thunderstorm and we find a large muddy puddle has collected inside the awning when we have to get up in the night to go to take the kids the toilet block. The kids now whine for another hour about their wet feet and want a hot water bottle each. I haven’t got a hot water bottle. I shout at them.

Breakfast. Both children decide they want coco pops and ONLY coco pops for breakfast. We’ve already eaten both the packets of coco pops from the cereal selection pack. The children fight over the one remaining packet of frosties. I shout at them.

We have a day out. The countryside walk that we had planned is not going to happen in this rain so we go to the seaside. Vast amounts of money are spent in the amusement arcades until the children both win implausibly large and impossibly ugly stuffed gorillas. There is some animated debate between the children about whose is the best gorilla, despite the fact that they are identical. I shout at them.

We come home to the campervan, and I’m determined to relax with a cup of tea and my book for half an hour. I discover that I have somehow managed not to download the book I wanted to read, and we have no wi-fi. One of the children’s gorillas gets hurled at the other child and knocks my cup of tea all over the campervan. I shout at them.

The kids cry. My husband threatens to take us all home again RIGHT NOW. We go to bed at 8.30 at night because there is nothing else to do on a campsite in the middle of the countryside, in the dark and the rain with no wi-fi.

We wake up the next morning, half relieved that we are going home today and can finally get dry again. We pack up; the campervan, the awning and every piece of clothing we brought is wet. We get stuck in the mud as we pull off the pitch. We turn out of the drive at the end of the campsite …

And THEN the sun comes out!

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[You may notice, of course, that the pictures of “Big Blue” do actually feature some sunshine. It isn’t always that bad – although, perhaps it’s only fair to point out that the picture above was taken as we waited for the AA …]

 

 

Runswick Bay

DSCN0500There were several villages in North Yorkshire that helped to inspire the fictional village of Rawscar, the setting for my forthcoming novel “The Little Church by the Sea”. Village number one is the lovely Runswick Bay, which has one of the few coastal thatched cottages on the whole of the North Yorkshire coast. (I haven’t researched extensively, but it’s the only one I’ve ever seen). The thatched cottage doesn’t appear in the book though!

DSCN0507The little village tumbles down the hill, the paths between the cottages only big enough for a wheelbarrow, no room for a car. With some very few exceptions, the people who stay in Runswick Bay have to park in the village car park and walk to their holiday homes. There are a few full-time residents of the village, but most of them live in the flat bit at the top of the hill; not so picturesque but easier to reach by car!

 

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The beach is long and sandy and the tide comes in right up to the bottom of the scrubby cliffs. At the far end of the beach is the sailing club, which can only be reached across the beach or by boat. Clustered around it are the last remaining beach huts, hidden in the scrub.

 

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These aren’t the conventional brightly coloured rows that you would see at Whitby or Scarborough, built for tourists to keep their buckets and spades in. The beach huts were built last century by the locals and they would live there in the summer whilst they rented out their cottages to holidaymakers.

 

 

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Due to coastal erosion very few now remain, this one, perched precariously on the edge of the muddy cliff will probably not last out the next winter. There is something very poignant about these disappearing buildings that appealed to me so much that I set two crucial scenes in “The Little Church by the Sea” in a beach hut just like this one.

There is, however, one crucial thing that the village of Runswick (Runs’ick to the locals) lacks – there is no church, little or otherwise!

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Beautiful Runswick Bay.

 

Cat shaped mistakes

My mistakes this week have mainly involved cats. Letting them sit in the same room as me whilst working does not seem to be a good idea this week; for some reason, our big, placid ginger cat Joey has decided that writing is NOT something I should be doing when he’s around.

I spread all my index cards out to try and work out some plotting issues with the latest novel. First, Joey tried to eat my pen as I scribbled some plot points down. Then he very carefully and deliberately walked across the index cards, scattering them left, right and centre, and when this didn’t create quite enough confusion he stretched out a delicate little ginger paw and batted several away onto the floor.  I stood up, irritated, to put them back in the right place, only to find that while my back was turned that same paw was pushing my pen off the table. If he could have laughed, he would have done.

I threw him out of the room.

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Only to find that when I went upstairs to work on some of what I had spent the morning planning, there he was, curled up on my desk chair, grinning maliciously in his sleep. I picked him up and put him on the floor. Now he’s sulking, and if you ask me, he’s poised, ready for his next attack … Don’t ask what’s under his furry behind, it’s probably my index cards …