Lil

it's time for us to return to Whitby for the last time, for now at least, as we conclude our Whitby series by moving away from Bram Stoker's Dracula and exploring some of the other stories to be found in the town's ancient winding streets, which are simply bursting with ghosts, myths and legends.

And for our first stop, we're going to briefly revisit the other book I've referred to a few times in this series, The Whitby Witches by Robin Jarvis, and track down a famous and rather grisly artefact of folklore and legend that I had waited 20 years to see.

And for our first stop, we're going to briefly revisit the other book I've referred to a few times in this series, The Whitby Witches by Robin Jarvis, and track down a famous and rather grisly artefact of folklore and legend that I had waited 20 years to see.

From the same car park up on West Cliff where we began our journey last episode, I walked away from the view over Whitby Harbour and East Cliff and headed away from Royal Crescent, down into the streets of West Cliff, along Crescent Avenue, up Gang Lane, crossing the road to St Hilda's Terrace to find a wrought iron gate set into a long stone wall over which the lush greenery of trees and bushes spilled forth.

From the same car park up on West Cliff where we began our journey last episode, I walked away from the view over Whitby Harbour and East Cliff and headed away from Royal Crescent, down into the streets of West Cliff, along Crescent Avenue, up Gang Lane, crossing the road to St Hilda's Terrace to find a wrought iron gate set into a long stone wall over which the lush greenery of trees and bushes spilled forth.

The gate is painted blue, with gold accents picking out curlicues along the top, and a year, 1935, casts just above the latch. A blue plaque on one of the stone gate pillars reads Panet Park, home of Panet Art Gallery and Whitby Museum.

The gate is painted blue, with gold accents picking out curlicues along the top, and a year, 1935, casts just above the latch. A blue plaque on one of the stone gate pillars reads Panet Park, home of Panet Art Gallery and Whitby Museum.

The park and gallery were the brainchild of Robert Elliot Panett, an alderman of Whitby, who wanted to create a place in the town where residents could enjoy fresh air, trees and flowers, whilst being sheltered from the often vicious sea winds that hold sway along the coast. He certainly succeeded.

The park and gallery were the brainchild of Robert Elliot Panett, an alderman of Whitby, who wanted to create a place in the town where residents could enjoy fresh air, trees and flowers, whilst being sheltered from the often vicious sea winds that hold sway along the coast. He certainly succeeded.

The market garden land he purchased in 1902 was turned into a pretty oasis of calm, filled with a diverse array of plants, meandering footpaths and quaint archways. Just perfect for a mindful stroll, safe from the whipping coastal winds.

The market garden land he purchased in 1902 was turned into a pretty oasis of calm, filled with a diverse array of plants, meandering footpaths and quaint archways. Just perfect for a mindful stroll, safe from the whipping coastal winds.

He also established a gallery within the park to house his art collection and, after Panett's death, a museum building was added to accommodate the collection of the Whitby Literary and Philosophical Society. Ambling along through the grounds, however, it was not the most clement day for a stroll.

He also established a gallery within the park to house his art collection and, after Panett's death, a museum building was added to accommodate the collection of the Whitby Literary and Philosophical Society. Ambling along through the grounds, however, it was not the most clement day for a stroll.

An icy drizzle chilled my bones and numbed my hands too much to even stop and take photographs, so I headed directly into the museum through its grand columned entrance at the top of a flight of steps and passed into the foggy warmth of the building, peeling off my sodden cagoule and imagining that I must be steaming, rather, like a hard galloped horse. I was excited for several reasons.

An icy drizzle chilled my bones and numbed my hands too much to even stop and take photographs, so I headed directly into the museum through its grand columned entrance at the top of a flight of steps and passed into the foggy warmth of the building, peeling off my sodden cagoule and imagining that I must be steaming, rather, like a hard galloped horse. I was excited for several reasons.

In all my previous trips to Whitby as a child and young adult, I had never managed to make it to this museum until now, and yet it formed such a vivid part of the story in Robin Jarvis's book, The Whitby Witches, that the desire to see it for myself had been bubbling away ferociously ever since. But also, I just love visiting museums, and I had high hopes for this one.

In all my previous trips to Whitby as a child and young adult, I had never managed to make it to this museum until now, and yet it formed such a vivid part of the story in Robin Jarvis's book, The Whitby Witches, that the desire to see it for myself had been bubbling away ferociously ever since. But also, I just love visiting museums, and I had high hopes for this one.

I don't know about you, but in recent years I've found some of the more modern museums a little... underwhelming in their ambience, to say the least. In fact, I visited a local one recently that I would be so bold as to describe as the pinnacle of soulless disappointment. A sterile, white, open space with fluorescent-lit interpretation boards squarely planted evenly along the walls.

I don't know about you, but in recent years I've found some of the more modern museums a little... underwhelming in their ambience, to say the least. In fact, I visited a local one recently that I would be so bold as to describe as the pinnacle of soulless disappointment. A sterile, white, open space with fluorescent-lit interpretation boards squarely planted evenly along the walls.

One case containing a scant handful of number-labelled artefacts laying lifelessly on a flat grey cloth. Maybe I'm old-fashioned. Maybe I'm just idealistic. Maybe I like a bit more artistic chaos. But that isn't my idea of a museum. I want a museum to look like an explosion has occurred in the study of a slightly mad 18th century antiquarian.