I’ve enjoyed trips to Blackpool all my life, so the summer before last I decided to give its east coast equivalent a try. Off to Scarborough we went. Less gaudy and with fewer donkeys, there was still all the fun of strolling along the prom-prom-prom, spending pennies in the arcades. There was even a brass band playing tiddly-om-pom-pom, as the Scarborough Jazz Festival was in full swing.
Scarborough claims to be the first holiday resort in the world, welcoming visitors since 1626. It may be towerless but has instead the imperious, imperial Grand Hotel looming over the seafront, where we stayed the night. Once the biggest hotel in Europe, its original plumbing allowed guests to fill their baths with either fresh or seawater, and so the apocryphal story goes – though probably not one to boast about – Hitler earmarked it as his post-invasion HQ. The grandeur it must once have dripped with now seems impossible to stop crumbling away, even if everybody suddenly decided to staycation there.
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After a long day, mostly spent collecting prize tokens that only amounted to a squishy eyeball bouncy ball, we headed back to the beached behemoth, down a Shining-esque corridor to our room. As soon as we turned off the light, a slow scraping sound could be heard through the wall. Like a bed being moved, if the bed was somehow being shunted from the floor to the ceiling.
Hoping noisy neighbours wouldn’t keep us awake all night, we fell asleep. It was only in the morning that we realised there was no room beyond the wall, we were at the far end of the building and the hotel was a notorious residence of ghostly guests who didn’t know the meaning of checking out.
In short, I loved my weekend in Scarborough. You can’t beat a holiday at home, which more of us than normal will be doing this summer thanks to aeroplane fuel shortages and a hesitation to fly towards Iranian airspace.









