A morning in Whitby

At six o’clock, the harbour was still half asleep. Fishing boats rocked gently against the quay, their ropes tapping the wood like impatient fingers. A gull swooped past with a sharp cry, and the air smelled of salt and warm bread from a bakery turning on its ovens. I followed the steep, cobbled lane towards the abbey. Each step brought a brighter view: red roofs, grey sea and a strip of pale gold sky. At the top, the wind tugged at my jacket. I leaned on the stone wall and watched the first sunlight spill across the water. For a moment, the town seemed to belong only to me.