Last week, I went to Morecambe. This week, I went to the other coast. Scarborough is not only the final resting place of Anne Bronte. It is also the final resting place of my uncle, who died last week. It’s a beautiful town that clings to steep, steadily eroding cliffs below a dramatic ruined castle, and this week, an even more brooding, gothic atmosphere was bestowed by the thick fog that rolled in every evening, shrouding the grand Victorian buildings that line the cliffs in swirling fingers of mist.
At the funeral, the Yorkshire half of the family talked about the “sea fret”, while the Scottish half nodded sorrowfully, conceding, “Aye, it’s a right cold haar”. I don’t know the origins of fret, but haar comes from Old Norse. The Scandinavian theme continued – one cousin had been researching her family tree and had uncovered a Danish great grandmother, another had a Norwegian grandfather, and Uncle John had spent the night before at a local pub where he stumbled upon a troupe of Norwegian teenagers doing karaoke.
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