We met where the path levelled out. "Afternoon! Not that it's a very good one," I bellowed with enthusiasm.
They stood blocking my progress. "Wouldn't go any further, if I was you," one of them said. If Wales really does produce fine tenors, the East Riding should be famous for its baritones. This one sounded as if he gargled with bitumen.
"Oh, really. Why's that?" I asked.
"Shooting," he stated. They were both wearing Barbour jackets that were pale with age, and the rain was running off their hats.
"Oh, thanks for the warning. What are you shooting?"
"Rabbits."
"Hard luck on the rabbits," I laughed. I stood looking around for a few moments, then pointed past them and said: "Will it be safe if I just look for fossils for a minute or two, down near your boats?"
They exchanged glances, and the spokesman said: "Aye, that should be all right."
They followed me down. I told myself that this was England, not Beirut, but I had to admit it was a good setting for a murder. They both went back into the shelter of the hut, but kept the door open, so they could watch me. I wandered up and down and kicked a few pebbles over. Once I took out my knife and squatted on my heels, closely examining nothing in particular. A squadron of guillemots came whirring over the wave-tops, as if on a suicidal torpedo run. I pulled out the binoculars and followed them until they vanished against the blackness of the rocks. It seemed a crazy place to build a port for the exporting of bulk cargo they'd have to lug everything down the cliffs. But then I noticed the tunnel.
The cliffs were banked with scree comprised of shale, heaped up like mining spoil. Rusty rails ran back from the pier, and pointed up the scree towards the blanked-off entrance. The iron ore wasn't brought down the cliff; it was transported from inland by tunnel. I marvelled at the simple ingenuity of it: the tunnel would slope gently down, and the weight of the full wagons descending would pull the empty ones back to the top. Energy required, nil. I continued sweeping the binoculars, stopping here and there, but slowly drawing them towards the opening. I paused. The mouth was blocked off with a wall made of stone blocks. In the middle a stone had been left out, as if to allow some ventilation, but down at the bottom left-hand corner, partly concealed by scrub, was a bigger gap, large enough for a man to crawl through. Both openings were now sealed with breeze blocks. I continued the sweep, then put the binocs back down the front of my anorak.
The rain was even heavier than before. I stood gazing out to sea and took several long, deep breaths. Ah, wonderful! If nature had devised a better way to catch pneumonia, I'd yet to find it. I beat my fists twice against my chest, shouted "Good afternoon' to the morons in the hut and set off briskly towards the cliff path. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that there was another, well-trodden path, leading up to the tunnel.
On the way down the mud had encroached up my legs until it reached my crotch. Going up, it made it to my armpits. Once I was back on the road the rain diluted it somewhat, but did little to improve my overall appearance. I couldn't have cared less, as I swung my arms jauntily on the way back to the car.
I had a lot of time to waste. I did some exploring in the car, heater at full blast to dry me out, and even managed a nap. It was well after opening time when I parked outside the Lobster Pot in Staithes. I'd chosen well, this was the pub that the old fishermen used. There weren't many of them, but it was a tiny place and their pipe-smoke made the air so thick that the flies were hang-gliding. I leaned on the corner of the bar with a half-pint and a packet of crisps. I was soon exchanging pleasantries with the landlord. Towards closing time, when most of the old-timers had stumbled away, he came to lean on my end of the bar. I bought us a Bell's each.
"Don't suppose you've a room vacant?" I asked. I'd seen the "No vacancies' sign when I entered.
"Afraid not, sir. We've two small rooms, but an American family have taken them. Never guess what they're called."
After a few seconds I said: "Cook?"
"Correct. You could try the Cliff Hotel up the hill. Would you like me to ring them?"
"No, it's all right, thanks. I'll go home. I just had a fancy for getting quietly drunk on your whisky, then crawling upstairs to bed.
It's a foul night outside."
"I know what you mean. Have you far to go?"
"No, only to Malton. I've just had a day's birdwatching; probably have flu in the morning."
He busied himself drying a few glasses. When he returned I said: "How much fishing goes off, these days?"
"Virtually none," he replied, 'just lobster-potting and some long-lining. It's a waste of time."
"What about from Port Mulgrave? I had a strange experience there today."
He looked interested, but not excessively so. "What sort of experience?" he asked.
"Oh, nothing bad. I walked down the path and two blokes with shotguns warned me off. Said they were rabbi ting and I might get shot. It seemed funny weather to be rabbi ting He wandered round the room, collecting the ashtrays. Everybody else had left. I drained my glass.
"One for the road?" he enquired.
"No thanks; if I'm driving I'd better not."
He came to stand next to me, and in a conspiratorial whisper said: "The Lazenby brothers fished from Mulgrave. And their fathers. And their grandfathers. Last year they sold their boats, word has it, for ten times what they were worth. Bought a posh bungalow in Redcar and haven't been seen since. Some divers use the port now. You know what they're into, don't you?"
"Er, no."
He lowered his voice even further, as if afraid that the walls might be listening. "Wrecks."
"Wrecks?" It wasn't quite what I was hoping for.
"Wrecks. War graves. There's dozens of 'em off this coast. And who knows what other things they're into?"
Other things; that sounded more like it. "What other things?" I asked.
Just then the door burst open and Mr. and Mrs. Cook and their two offspring dashed in. They took off their raincoats and the landlord hung them somewhere to dry. The kids were packed off upstairs to brush their braces and go to bed, while Captain Cook and his mate settled down with a nightcap. I said my goodbyes and left. I had work to do.
I parked at the same place I had used earlier in the day, but this time I didn't don my waterproofs they made too much noise when I walked in them. The steady rain had given way to the fine sort that just hangs suspended in the air, managing to soak your sheltered surfaces just as thoroughly as the top ones. Instead of walking up the road, past a string of houses, I cut directly across the fields. The night was blacker than a tomcat's soul. When I reached the cliff top I groped along the fence until I found the stile. I had my second pee, hoping that my bladder was responding to nervousness or overindulgence, and not incipient prostate trouble, and climbed over.
It was nearly impossible to keep to the path. Cattle grazed on the cliff side and left numerous tracks that went off in different directions. I stared down at the ground, and placed my feet on the darkest patches I could see, sometimes with messy consequences. It took me a long time to reach the bottom. I did a left turn until I crossed the rails, then made another, up towards the tunnel entrance.
The sheds were, thankfully, in darkness.
A hundred years of erosion had left the opening stranded several feet up. I did the last bit climbing on my hands and knees, pulling myself upwards with handfuls of grass. At last I made it on to a ledge at the entrance, and paused to regain my breath. Everything was as quiet as a tomb. The sea stretched out before me, still and lifeless, like southern beer. I took out a little torch and, cupping my hands round it, examined the opening. It was bigger than I had thought, but the breeze blocks weren't cemented in. I put the torch away and explored the joints with my fingertips. The topmost block had no weight on it.