Our Whitby Local

We’ve been to Whitby a couple of times in the last four years, and even though that’s not very often at all, we seemed to have found a pub that we’ve adopted as our “Whitby local”. I’m not sure whether this says more about how fabulous Whitby is or more about us liking a visit to the pub, but I’m not going to over analyse it too much.

The Black Horse with its no frills, great beer and gentle everyone-join-in chatter just seems to fit what we like.

This visit to Whitby we visited the pub twice (we were only there two nights – not bad going – hahaha). We’ve chatted to so many people and also their lovely dogs. Two border terriers wearing bandanas in aid of a dogs charity and a big Alsatian agitated and anxious. He was gorgeous, but I was proud of my youngest for reading the room and not petting him.

There was also a miniature French bulldog called Kevin who had an owner with massive hands like dinner plates, old fashioned bin lids or Hagrid. Kevin likes to go to the pub because the barmaid gives him a treat. There was the Labrador whose owner was chatting to some American tourists about the minutiae of details to do with education psychology. I’m sure it was interesting to his owner, but I noticed that the Americans didn’t buy another drink and the dog was staring at me, Darren and my youngest with pleading eyes that seemed to say “I love my dad, but please rescue me from the topic of eye movements and what they mean about diagnosing dyslexia – I just wanted a walk and a biscuit.” As we walked past him to leave he stood up, wagged his tail and looked hopeful that we’d give him a biscuits or a walk. I patted him on the head sympathetically and left. He was loved. He just didn’t like the topic.

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