CHAPTER X.
Old and New Filey—The Ravine—Filey Brig—Breaking Waves—Ragged Cliffs—Prochronic Gravel—Gristhorp Bay—Insulated Column—Lofty Cliffs—Fossil Plants—Red Cliff—Cayton Bay—Up to the Road—Bare Prospect—Cromwell Hotel and Oliver’s Mount—Scarborough—The Esplanade—Watering-Place Phenomena—The Cliff Bridge—The Museum—The Spa—The Old Town—The Harbour—The Castle Rock—The Ancient Keep—The Prospect—Reminiscences: of Harold Hardrada; of Pembroke’s Siege; of the Papists’ Surprise; of George Fox; of Robin Hood—The One Artilleryman—Scarborough Newspapers—Cloughton—The Village Inn, and its Guests—Tudds and Pooads.
Here at Filey you begin to see a special characteristic of these sea-side resorts;—the contrast between the new and old—the nineteenth century looking proudly across a narrow debatable ground at the sixteenth and seventeenth, putting even still earlier periods out of countenance. Were it not for its churches, the olden time would on occasions be made to feel ashamed of itself.
A breezy commanding outlook in front; a large handsome church, with low square tower, in the rear; a few shops trying to reconcile themselves to the new order of things while supplying the wants of fifteen hundred inhabitants; more than a few true to the old order, and here and there behind the dim panes, eggs of sea-birds, and shells, and marine stores, in the literal sense; and two or three quiet-looking, respectable inns, open to visitors whom the style of the Royal Hotel intimidates; the new town on the south, and a wooded ravine on the north; and such is old Filey.
Into this ravine I descended from the church. Heavy rain had fallen nearly all night, and the paths were so sticky and slippery, that I wondered so pretty a spot, so capable with bushes and trees and a little brook of contributing to recreation, should not be better kept. There is no lack of material for solid paths in the neighbourhood; but judging from appearances the ravine gets none of it. The path follows the course of the brook, and brings you out upon a beach where fishing-boats, and nets, and lobster-pots, and heaps of ballast, and a smoky fire, and fishy refuse and a smell of tar, and sturdy men and women, make up divers pictures for the eye, and odours for the nostrils.
As, on approaching Flamborough, we saw the chalk begin to appear at the base of the cliff, so here we see a stratum of sandstone slanting up beneath the clay, rising higher towards the northern horn of the bay, and thence stretching out for three furlongs into the sea, forming the remarkable reef known as Filey Brig. Camden describes it as “a thin slip of land, such as the old English called File; from which the little village Filey takes its name.” We may suppose that the cliff once projected as far, sheltering an indentation so deep that Ptolemy might well call it the well-havened bay; though on this particular there are different opinions among the learned. Even now, stripped of its cap of clay, the reef forms a natural breakwater, of which the effect is best seen in the quiet of the small vessels at anchor behind it.
I was fortunate in the time, for a strong north wind was blowing, and the great waves, checked in their career, dashed headlong against the stony barrier, and broke into little mountains of foam, bursting up here and there in tall white intermittent jets as from a geyser; here one solid surge tumbling over another, mingling with rush and roar in a wide drift of spume; there flinging up gauzy whiffs of spray as if mermaids in frolic were tossing their veils. So mighty were the shocks at times as to inspire a feeling of insecurity in one who stood watching the magnificent spectacle.
You can walk out to the end of the reef, and get good views of Scarborough, about six miles distant in one direction, and away to Flamborough on the other. The floor is generally level, interrupted in places by great steps, channels, and boles; and by huge blocks of many tons’ weight scattered about, testifying mutely to the tremendous power of the sea.
It is a wild scene, and wilder beyond the point, where the whole beach is strewn with broken lumps, and ledge succeeds to ledge, now high, now low, compelling you to many an up-and-down, stooping under a rude cornice, or scrambling over a slippery ridge. In places the cliff overhangs threateningly, or, receding, forms an alcove where you may sit and feast your eye with the wondrous commotion, and your ear with the thundering chorus of many waters.
The upper stratum of clay is worn by the twofold action of rain and spray into singularly fantastic forms, and where it has been deeply excavated, there, kept in by the rim of stone, lies a salt-water pool so bright and pellucid that the temptation to bathe therein is irresistible. I thought to get round to Gristhorp Bay, but came presently to a recess where the breakers rushing half way up the cliff barred all further progress. To lean against the rocky wall and feel it throb with the shock within the shower of spray, produced an almost painful emotion; and it seemed to me that the more tumultuous the sea the better did it harmonize with a promontory so rugged and grim.