Mindful of the intimation let fall by Izaria Boswell that there were black Herons to be found at Robin Hood’s Bay, I made my way thither afoot one brilliant July morning. A cool air from the sea tempered the sun’s powerful rays, and it was good to inhale the sweetness of the summer meadows where the haymakers were busy. Overhead the bent-winged silvery gulls passed to and fro, and among the wayside bushes yellow-hammers trilled their song which in childhood we translated by the words, “a little bit of bread and no cheese.”
Perched on the top of a lofty cliff overlooking the North Sea, the village of Robin Hood’s Bay seems almost to overhang a precipice, and on stormy nights the wind roaring up the cliff flings the salt spray far inland. The whole of the coast hereabouts is a delicious panorama of rock-bound bays and coves.
On arriving at the village I had no difficulty in locating my Gypsies. A fisherman, sun-tanned and jovial, pointed a stubby finger towards a grassy plot whereon stood three caravans, and it was with a thrill of pleasure that I drew near. Yes, there on the short turf sat one-armed Josh and Nettie, his wife. Our greetings were hearty, and as we talked, up came one of the Youngs.
“You are just the man I want to see, rashai,” and, taking out a crumpled newspaper, he said, “There’s something in here about stopping the Gypsies from camping at Scarborough.”
After a hunt through the paper, I came upon a report of a meeting of the wiseacres of the town, and read their speeches about the “nuisances” said to be created by the Gypsies.
“But there ain’t any Gypsies there now we’s come away,” said Young. “The people stopping there are only poor didakais (half-breeds) and mumpari. We don’t call them Gypsies.”
The speaker was one of the purest-bred English Gypsies I have ever met.
Pure Gypsies draw a marked line between dirty, low-class van-dwellers and themselves; but unfortunately the world at large makes no such distinction, immensely to the detriment of the true Romanitshel.
East Yorkshire is a favourite country with the Herons and Youngs. Both Josh and Nettie love it well, as did also some of their forelders. It was at Robin Hood’s Bay that Nettie’s Aunt Whipney died long years ago. I well remember a little tale about this old Gypsy. Tinker Ned, her husband, had “found” a kani (hen) for the pot. It was a small one, and Whipney cooked it. When the tinker came home at a later hour than he had promised, he asked—
“Where’s that kani? Have you cooked it?”