Whitby.
I've been to Whitby in North Yorkshire.
It was a long time ago when my husband took my pregnant self and my one year old daughter out of the harbour at Whitby on a sloop that belonged to a friend.
We were brave to go because no-one knew much about sailing.
We loved Whitby and drove over the moors passing Fylingdale and the dooming white globes, the early warning site for a nuclear war and on to the town of Whitby, with its steep, narrow streets and quaint pokey shops at the side of the River Esk.
There had been a revival of interest in the whaling ships of the last century at that time and we collected some lasting reprints of Victorian photos of the people and fishermen off Whitby.
Coal went out from there too making this quite an important coastal town in that century.
Looking suspiciously like polished coal too was the precious jet formed from local lignite found on Whitby beaches: so funereal and so Victorian.
I have a string of jet from those days.
We climbed to Whitby Abbey, made famous by the Bram Stoker's tales of Dracula and how he arrived on these shores.
The ruins of the Abbey are impressive but empty, but the hundreds of steps to the top are well worth the panoramic view of the lovely harbour and town.
And, of course, Whitby was the home of the famous Captain Cook and his two ships, 'Endeavour' and 'Resolution' would have sailed this harbour.
I can remember that day as if it were yesterday, well wrapped against a gusty wind and keeping my daughter strapped to my side.
I can remember the laughter as we set sail along the river and out towards to sea.
I can remember the sudden attack of nerves and sea sickness and pleading to be taken back to the safety of the harbour.
I can remember the fish and chips, the best I've ever had and the relief of a cup of tea in dry dock.