Today's newsround consists of a columnist from
The Telegraph visiting Scarborough:
And what of the rest of Scarborough? A delightful town, genuinely charming; still clinging to what’s left of the fishing industry and apparently thriving as a holiday destination. Reputedly England’s oldest seaside resort, Scarborough’s pleasingly underdeveloped North Bay was an early pioneer of bathing machines; those portable changing rooms that allowed women to dip in the perennially cold North Sea away from the male gaze, as social convention once dictated.
The bay is overlooked by the ruins of Scarborough Castle, which sit atop a craggy hill. I climbed it, walking through the wonky, weather-beaten old town, which tumbles downhill the other side towards South Bay. I stopped halfway at St Mary’s Church, where the stone walls have been worn smooth by centuries of rain. Anne Brontë is buried there. Her original headstone has succumbed to the elements, but its modern replica relays the original epitaph and corrects a mistake — she was 29 when she died, not 28. (Gavin Haines)
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