Oct 30, 7:30am- It must be said this beach does not quite meet my expectations; yet I admire it regardless. Soft autumn breeze caresses my face and runs its fingers through my hair. The tranquil flutter of the falling waves calms me and wafts the well-known scent of salt-water into my direction. I have been reading- Bram Stoker's Dracula, of course. I cannot wait to visit Whitby Abbey and the benches by the graveyard where poor Lucy Westenra became a victim of the Count. And where Mina would rest and talk to the sweet old man Mr Swales; before he died in the very same location.
Unfortunately, I could not read for long as I found myself very distracted by the various things going on around me. Dogs barked, children cried and raced around; throwing buckets and spades in every direction. It wasn't long before it got too painful to deal with and I decided to resort back to my hotel for breakfast.
YOU ARE READING
Whitby
Short StoryA short fictional travelogue inspired by my time in Whitby. It discusses the Gothic side of Whitby including Whitby Goth Festival, and Whitby's links with Bram Stokers' Dracula. It tackles issues that people of Gothic and alternative subcultures end...
