One of the last things I did before we left Canada was pick up a copy of Lonely Planet Great Britain. I was bound and determined to learn as much about our new home as possible and I figured the best way to do that was by planting my nose firmly in a travel guide. Plus, I am just a huge fan of Lonely Planet, so any excuse is good by me.
As I flipped through the section on Yorkshire, I became enthralled with Scarborough, a classic seaside town where rich Brits would spend their summers. It wasn’t so much the stuff of fairy tales, but the stuff of really great movies set in the 1920s, and I couldn’t wait to see it for myself.
For weeks I dreamed about Scarborough–okay, maybe that’s a stretch, but I did think and talk about it often–I wanted to wander through the town, walk on the beach and maybe, just maybe, ride one of the local famed Scarborough donkeys along the sands. But for the longest time we held off; we just couldn’t justify the cost of the train.
Then, one week, after much begging and pleading, we decided to bite the bullet and booked our tickets on the Transpennine Express. It didn’t seem like prices were going to go down, so there was no better time–at least that was my justification. I was excited. It was finally going to be my time; I was ready to revel in the glory of the roaring 1920s Britain.
I was excited. It was finally going to be my time; I was ready to revel in the glory of the roaring 1920s Britain. I was going to dip a toe in the ocean, make friends with a donkey and eat fish ‘n’ chips at one of the restaurants that do it best, as per my best friend Lonely Planet. I was ready for a magical afternoon in Scarborough.
I was ready for a magical freakin’ afternoon in Scarborough. Until I wasn’t.
“Why are you going to Scarborough?!” A co-worker asked me the night before our trip. “That place is a sh*thole.”
And just like that, the air had been let out of my dreams. Continue reading