May is a fabulous month in which to recharge. Not only is it so often the end of the winter frost, imbued with an early, unexpected heat, but it is also bookmarked by bank holidays - those precious three-day windows where we can briefly rewrite the routine. We used the first of them to explore Hastings, tasting the salt and the green of East Sussex.
For the second, we tacked on a day of annual leave to stretch the calendar into a four-day weekend.
The goal? Head north to find the true face of the Yorkshire coast.
The Bones clan numbers four and every one of us was committed to the miles. We chase these long weekends hoping for a break in the rhythm, a gift of time carved out of the standard corporate calendar. "Rick" the van was packed tight on Thursday night so we could hit the tarmac on Friday directly after the school run. It’s a format that works for us, especially when the distance ahead is vast. Driving for hours into the fading light, we pulled over at a pre-determined stop in Worksop. The kids love the novelty of a hotel stay; my wife and I love it when the hotel is also a pub. This one, the Lock Keeper Inn, sat right beside the beautiful, weathered brickwork of Deep Lock on the Chesterfield Canal. It was a straightforward, functional start to the adventure, putting us within a two-hour strike of our basecamp in Bridlington.
By Saturday morning, the sunshine was already baking the tarmac. The heat was deliciously heavy, direct, and unapologetic. We made our way to Bridlington, established the van as our anchor and stepped out toward the coast. The path led us to the high cliffs of Sewerby. Standing there, the coast laid out its geometry: the commercial seaside town of Bridlington proper sat to our right, while the glittering white walls of Flamborough Head dominated the left.
This was our playing field for the next few days. Already, my mind was busy mapping a morning trail run from basecamp along the coastal path, down into the harbour and back. But for that afternoon, the running shoes stayed off. From behind us, within the gardens of the Ship Inn, the energetic, nostalgic strains of nineties melodies performed by a lone fiddler drifted out, drawing us into the sunlit crowd.
The Puffin Hunt
On Sunday morning, we drove to Bempton Cliffs and paid the toll to access the RSPB cliff paths. This was one of the primary anchors of the trip; we knew the puffins returned here for a narrow window each year to breed. In my mind’s eye, I had constructed an idealized, postcard image: lush green fields atop the cliffs, populated by busy little puffins milling about under the adoring, respectful gaze of birdwatchers.
That mental image is likely the clearest proof that the Bones clan is not comprised of seasoned ornithologists. The reality was vast, chaotic, and entirely indifferent to our expectations.
Half a million birds clung to the vertical sheer rock faces, circled on violent rising currents, or swarmed in massive, floating rafts upon the rippling grey sea below. The sound of their cries hung in the air, a haunting, relentless wall of noise. The sheer scale of the population bamboozled us. Armed only with a near-antique pair of binoculars, we took turns squinting into the abyss, trying to find the tiny, colourful target of our mission among literal giants of the Atlantic air.
It was an avian version of Where’s Wally? Had it not been for a generous stranger - a man equipped with a massive tripod and a piece of glass far more technological and adequate than our own - we might have missed it entirely. He simply offered up his lens. Even then, with the world reduced to a tiny, magnified disc of reality, we struggled at first to isolate the small puffin nestled among the giant, imposing gannets. Finally spotting him elicited a sudden, joyful laugh from my chest. I thanked the man, stepping aside so the rest of the clan could take their peek at that solitary speck of life.
From Birds to the Absurd
We set out from the cliffs in the van and were suddenly startled by two white Jack Russells dashing towards us in the road. We had just passed over a railway crossing and we could see that was were they headed. Without hesitation, we pulled over and abandoned the kids in the van, my wife and I running down the road after the dogs. We caught them just as they reached the crossing and each took one up into our arms.
They were friendly little rascals and not much more than puppy age, but not a collar to refer to. Our only choice was to walk back up the way they had come, calling out for anyone that might hear and know where the dogs belonged. Our efforts paid off after fifteen minutes, when a man came to us, relief flooding his face as he took them into his arms.
"Naughty little sisters," he told us before we returned to the van.
The boys listened to the retelling as we drove, but they were distracted. Anyone with teenage boys understands that their mood is directly tied to the regular intake of fuel. We headed south toward Bridlington’s South Beach to find food. My spirits were high, adrenaline still coursing from the dog chase, but the transition when we arrived was sharp, pulling me down with a thud.
Much like my misaligned expectation of the cliffs, my pre-conceived image of Bridlington - heavily coloured by the historic, creative grit of places like Hastings - clashed violently with the reality. Modern seaside towns can be magical, but they can also be profoundly jarring. Bridlington felt hollow.
The wide expanse of sand was littered with bodies, windbreaks, and sedate sunworshippers. We walked past a row of beach huts, brightly painted but somehow feeling purely utilitarian, devoid of character. I struggled to pinpoint exactly what was polluting the view for me - a coastal vista I would normally absorb with absolute delight. The truth only fully dawned when we boarded a tourist boat, the Yorkshire Rose, to view Flamborough Head from the water.
We queued beside the Gansey Girl monument whilst the ramp was being prepared, not really noticing the length of the queue behind us. This only became apparent as the bodies kept on following us. The ship was packed to the gunwales! We were pushed to the stern, squashed into our seats by a dense mass of human bodies. Despite the clear signs prohibiting it, lit cigarettes dangled from lips. Half-cut, shirtless men, clutching warm cans of cider, raised their voices over the engine, loudly mocking anyone aboard who didn't fit their narrow demographic. Heavily accented women, likewise half-drunk, cussed and cackled along with them - strangers before they stepped onto the deck, but now entirely united in a crude, common intent.
It left a bitter taste in my mouth. I had to reconcile my own judgment, but in that moment, the disconnection I’d felt on the beach made sense. I had been trying to see the raw nature of the coast while desperately attempting to ignore the friction of the society cutting through it. It churns the stomach to watch people treat a legendary landscape (and each other) with such casual, systemic disrespect.
The Left Turn
At 7:00 AM on Monday morning, the sharp chime of my phone alarm cut through the quiet of the van. It was a remnant of the standard working week, a pre-set digital reminder I had forgotten to disable. But waking up refreshed, I didn't resent it. I shrugged, pulled on my gear, and took the mistake as an invitation.
A quick coffee, the hydration pack filled, running kit laced up and I was gone.
My original plan was to execute the route I’d mapped out on Saturday: down to the cliffs by the Ship Inn and straight into Bridlington Harbour. But as I reached the coastal path, the memory of the previous afternoon’s crowds, the smoke and the heavy friction still sat sour in my gut. I didn't want it!
So, I turned left instead, away from the town, along the raw edge of the cliff.
I found a steep, plunging path that cut down through the woods, the morning air instantly turning cool and damp under the heavy green canopy. The track was slightly treacherous, demanding focus, before it suddenly opened at Danes Dyke. I kept pushing left, navigating a stark, ancient landscape of chalk rocks, tidal pools, and massive fallen boulders.
I stopped to catch my breath and looked out across the North Sea.
The water was a perfect mill pool, flat, peaceful, and seemingly infinite. Seabirds skimmed inches above the glassy surface. The sun, rising higher, roasted my skin, while the towering white chalk cliffs caught the light, reflecting the heat straight back at me like a furnace. With hot legs, a sweaty face and burning muscles, my heart finally found its ease.
This was Yorkshire! Not the agitated, commercialized afternoon in the town square, and certainly not the claustrophobia of the Yorkshire Rose. This was the county’s true architecture: hidden deeply in the heart of the elements, sandwiched between ancient chalk to my left and the infinite water to my right, under an unmarred, brilliant blue sky.
What Lasts
Some might call that instinct antisocial. But perhaps it is simply how some of us are built. I find my deepest comfort not in jostling through a crowd of strangers, but in the clean clarity of isolation. I find peace when I am fully immersed in the elements, letting the physical strain burn away the static of modern society until only the bones of the land remain.
When the noise of the crowded beaches faded, the real memories of the trip took their proper shape.
The true spirit of the coast didn’t live in the commercial centre; it lived in the sudden adrenaline of Sunday afternoon, rescuing two runaway Jack "Rascals".
Even within Bridlington itself, the real soul was there if you knew where to look. It wasn't on the crowded tour boat; it was held in the quiet dignity of the Gansey Girl statue at the harbour edge. Frozen in bronze, her fingers knitting the heavy wool pattern unique to her village, she sits forever awaiting her sailor husband, staring past the tourists and out into the vast, unforgiving grey ocean.
And it lived back at Bempton, where half a million wild souls claimed the rock face in a deafening, chaotic symphony of survival. Where, if you were patient enough and willing to accept the help of a stranger, you could catch a glimpse of one solitary, tiny puffin holding its ground against the wind.
That is what stays. The grit, the isolated beauty and the quiet resilience of the coast.
The rest is just noise.
Bones
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