Coasting

It was a dull April morning in town.

Dull from the point of view of the weather and my job list which was less than inspiring in that it comprised;

9.00am, a visit to a house to advise its occupants on measures to combat their chronic dampness,
9.45am, tip-toeing through a vandalised property avoiding holes in the floor and booby traps,
10.30am, dodging freshly painted surfaces in a new-build project, and 11.30am sneaking a photo over a garden fence without alerting the neighbourhood watch to my rather dodgy behaviour.

The motivation to get through the first part of the day was the tantalising prospect of a drive up into North Yorkshire to the evocatively sounding address of "Sea View Gardens, Scarborough".

Most great road trips are exciting enough but if there is the prospect of a panoramic view or breathtaking vista at journey's end then that excursion is elevated to classic status.

The misty and moist low cloud was held firmly in the tight city environment and the usual landmarks of industrial smoke stacks and wind turbines only loomed into sight at the last moment in ghostly silhouette. It was not until I had turned westwards onto the by-pass that the density of the vapour shroud began to thin out with watery sunlight and I could make out the residential tower blocks on a large estate in my rear view mirror. Within a couple of miles I realised that beyond the city boundary it was actually a bright and increasingly pleasant spring day. My standard issue company jumper in which I had earlier been mistaken for a Prison Warder and/or Tesco Security Guard began to feel a bit over-warm although I had welcomed its 100% wool mix earlier on in the day.

The daffodils were resplendent on the verge and embankments of the busy trunk road although their previously dazzling radiance was now a bit speckled with exhaust particles and spray from HGV's. Most of the traffic headed off, at the main roundabout junction towards York, and I was left heading up coast with just a few straggler caravans and fast paced, chubby leather clad motorcyclists. The route is one of the most notorious for causing the demise of the 40 to 50 years age group of menopausal bikers and every couple of miles is marked with signage warning of the perils of speed and unrestrained behaviour through tight bends. These appear to have caused no pangs of conscience whatsoever although there was a slight slowing as a mark of respect at each of the flower bestooned shrines marking the accident sites from the early part of the years run outs..

The countryside above Beverley is open and rolling between the large cultivated fields and dispersed hamlets and villages. If not in a hurry and savouring the prospect of Sea View Gardens it is nice to idle along listening to drama or comedy on the car radio. However, I am not complacent in my driving as I well recall my momentary dozing behind the wheel and the ensuing surprise of finding, upon stirring awake, that I was on the opposite side of the road heading into oncoming traffic. I have ever since avoided any programming involving The Archer's. Just too soporific even at 10am in the morning on that potentially fatal morning.

The road climbs gradually north of Driffield over the chalky Wolds and with views either side to sweeping and dry valleys. The radio reception ebbs and flows through the deep set and sleepy settlements of Langtoft and Foxholes usually at a critical moment of the reveal in the murder mystery. Never mind, BBC4 Extra do repeat the schedule at least four times in a day and I can catch up and assess my own powers of deduction on the return leg of the trip. I am almost word perfect on some of the episodes of Steptoe and Son, Dad's Army and Flywheel, Schyster and Flywheel from the saturation coverage on a day of particularly long driving distances. Yes, I know there are other channels available but fiddling with the tuner is also, I understand, a common contributory factor to road crashes.

Staxton Hill is a twisting descent of 1 in 6 gradient. Engaging a low gear, as advised by the warning notices, is painfully noisy and cumbersome but essential to comply with to avoid the very public spectacle of losing control and ploughing through the deep sand of the escape lane at its base. I have never witnessed a runaway vehicle although it still surprises me to see fresh tyre ruts as though the very crude speed retarding measure gets regular use.

After the ups and downs of the previous 20 miles the flat plain from Staxton into the suburbs of Scarborough is depressing. People must like it on the evidence of the large static caravan parks although I attribute this to the close proximity to a Morrisons Supermarket and a McDonalds restaurant, both important considerations for a vacation stay in the UK.

Scarborough itself, I liken to Rome. They could be candidates for twinning with both being built on a series of hills, some quite steep and imposing with housing clinging on against gravity and resisting the Scarborough-centric phenomenum of soil creep. This is where, usually following heavy and persistent rain, the natural stickiness and amalgam of the clay soils usually good factors for foundation stability just gives up and the consequence of buildings making their way down hill unaccompanied makes the newpapers and national TV coverage.

I skirt around the large natural feature of Olivers Mount, sometime motorsports race circuit but everyday panoramic viewpoint to get onto the Filey Road which leads to my appointment. There are some tremendous properties along this prestigious axis ranging from large Victorian and Edwardian villas to inter war red tiled detached in expansive landscaped gardens, again hugging close to the closely packed contours. Scarborough follows a typical urban expansion plan and the age of housing becomes progressively younger the farther from its centre. My destination is part of the 1960's growth of by now rather plain and boring dwellings. predominantly retirement bungalows and semi-chalet style houses.

I turn into the series of cul de sacs that make up Sea View Road, Sea View Grove, Sea View Avenue and Sea View Gardens. I feel sorry for the postal service on the basis of potential mayhem and confusion over any vaguely addressed items. Still, they have a one in four chance of delivering to the correct residence. The community spirit amongst the locals must be good if they are for ever popping around the estate making sure the mis-delivered correspondence reaches its rightful recipients.

My destination is one of the uninspiring semi detached houses.

The only potential feature to salvage a bit of character would be that promise of a sea view.

From the driveway the only aspect is onto other properties with no distant azure haze. Slightly elevated in the ground floor living room the prospect of an outlook onto clear ocean and the horizon balanced profile of a large vessel plying the lanes to and from Teesport or any of the world's great shipping nations is still thwarted by the rest of the cul de sac.

I make my way up the 1960's open tread, almost ladder like, staircase and peer out of the landing window. I am now looking out onto the ridges of rooftops and a few aerial festooned chimney stacks. Still no joy of white caps and sea swell.

There is a large double glazed window at the back or the house, facing north and therefore back towards the main Scarborough Town.

Just as I am about to give up ever spying the ocean I come across a rooflight set up high and paralell to the roof slope in the bathroom, obviously a modern alteration to improve natural light and ventilation. I do have a set of ladders in the boot of my car but on I just couldn't be bothered to trail down to get them.

Rather recklessly I moved a bit of the furniture from one of the bedrooms and constructed a platform from a single bed base, a wicker backed chair and an upholstered foot rest or as they used to be called, a pouffe. They sat well onto each other and provided a stable enough pyramid for me to climb up and ease open the pivoting Velux.

At full tip toe stretch and with my head protruding at an uncomfortable and unnatural angle I at last caught a glimpse of the North Sea in all of its murky glory.

The day had promised much but had then threatened to be a huge anti-climax but I am happy not to have to report the road naming committee of the Local Council to Trading Standards for gross misrepresentation.