Tooth-grinding first occurred in Whitby station car park, which aside from costing an eye watering £8 for the day, required you to input your entire car registration number. This demand, combined with a very small QWERTY keyboard at hip height, didn't suit the railway's typical customer, a 76 year old struggling to see in their Variofocals. I stood in mute agony for a full 10 minutes waiting for my turn.
The first 20 minutes of the journey was brilliant, then a large, garrulous Greek-Cockney family sat down opposite and by us, and the old-school magic was somewhat lost as father and son loudly debated the cost of CNC milling machines. These were replaced at Goathland by a younger family, and here the fun really began. The parents, clad in that Gore-texy kind of stuff that wicks away moisture at such a rate you can easily dehydrate, didn't speak to each other once. Dad concentrated on getting Quavers into his 3 year old, like a council worker feeding Christmas trees into a chipper, while a baby grizzled away on Mum's lap. I know babies whinge, but it's the most irritating sound when you're not a parent yourself. I flung myself and Molly out of the train like a champagne cork when we finally got there.
Of Pickering I will say little, except that it is quite a challenge to while away 2 hours there in the rain. The churchyard was full of Suzys, which freaked me out, and the High Street full of snarling aggressive dogs which had a similar effect on poor Molly.
The return journey was 6-seater carriages, making choice of neighbour even more important. The people we ended up with sucked in their breath over their teeth when we asked if they were dog-friendly, before relenting when they saw how small she was. They were okay, but the man in particular was not backward in coming forwards with his opinion on dogs in general, and I was relieved that Molly fell daintily asleep on my lap for the entirety of the journey. She took revenge on behalf of canine-kind by stealthily farting throughout.
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