I usually try to avoid posting touristy photographs, but in this case, my resolve faltered. This one was taken looking back as we wandered towards Ruswarp, along the River Esk, with the ruins of Whitby Abbey brooding in the distance. A cliché, admittedly, but quite picturesque in a ruinous sort of way.
As for the history, I could ramble on indefinitely.
Established in 657 by King Oswy of Northumbria—who had struck a deal with the Almighty, offering his daughter in holy servitude in exchange for a military win against a pagan king—it began life as the Priory of Streonshalh, back when Whitby still had the good sense to go by a name meaning “treasure hall.” Enter Lady Hilda, a royal woman of 44 years, presumably with nothing better to do, who took up the role of Abbess and remained there until her death in 680.
Then, in 664, the place hosted the Synod of Whitby, which sounds thrilling. The issue: whether to follow the British method or the Roman method for calculating Easter. The British Church, in its charming provincial way, often had Easter coinciding with Roman Lent. The matter was resolved when it was pointed out that St Peter held the keys to Heaven. The king, not wishing to argue with a celestial porter, abandoned the local tradition in favour of Rome’s.
The abbey is also rich in ghost stories, because of course it is. It is said that St. Hilda herself haunts the ruins. At a certain time of year, when sunlight filters through the northern part of the choir in just the right way, observers claim to see her ghostly figure in a window. It is more than likely a trick of the light, but naturally this has never stopped people from insisting otherwise. One must admire the commitment to myth over optics.
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