The initial plan was to walk to Whitby, until I remembered it’s 20-odd miles and the cats would kill me.

So I settled for a day of bimbling around town, looking at buildings and gazing at the sea.

Scarborough was the original seaside town, after a 17th century resident discovered the scam of claiming the local spring waters had restorative properties.

“Taking the waters” became a Victorian gold rush, especially after the development of the railways and the suggestion that slowly lowering yourself into the sea from a ludicrous bathing contraption was good for the constitution.

Now, as with a lot of British seaside towns, there’s a kind of sadness, a hankering for past glories, and a crumbling gone-to-seed dignity of a place that knows its best days are gone but it must somehow abide.

One thing that would help, as with Brighton, would be to sort out the traffic. The South Bay, with its glorious sands, is graced by a permanent traffic jam – other European countries must marvel at how we still believe in the 1960s dream of choking donkeys with idling petrol engines.

Beyond that, there’s plenty to explore and plenty at which to marvel.

Scarborough Spa, a wonderful Grade II listed venue with lovely modernist extension, is hosting a punk festival this weekend, headlined by The Buzzcocks and Sham 69. I went along for lunch in the venue’s cafe, and a kind member of staff allowed me to sneak a peek at the Grand Hall.

Just as I was leaving, I was joined by two old punks who tested my knowledge on 1970s pop history, and earned their grudging respect by guessing Talking Heads supported The Ramones for a UK Tour in 1977.

One of them was from Sheffield, and has written a series of books on being a Wednesday football hooligan in the good old days when mass punch-ups apparently had their own set of rules, codes, and invisible honours and boundaries.

He reminisced about the time he blagged a trip on a Sham 69 tour as a “roadie”; travelling the country in a transit van and the gang ordering 24 bottles of beer and salmon and cucumber sandwiches “with the crusts cut off” as room service, and telling the tour manager “it’s not your money, it’s Polydor’s”.

Making my excuses to leave, the punk told me to say hi to the cats and to check out his books [1], and squeezed out one more well-told anecdote about fighting as I walked cheerfully off into the sun.

I had a good, if occasionally melancholy, day by the sea, enjoying the views by the castle, exploring the coast and the old pleasure gardens, and hanging out in the Victorian market hall, itself a monument to a time when the town prospered and had the self-aggrandising architecture to prove it.

Next time, I’ll make it to Whitby.

[1] Here’s a link to one of his books. From the description:

“Wednesday, Rucks and Rock ‘n’Roll tells the story of the East Bank from 1975 to 2002 – the planning, the pubs, the matches, the rucks and the coppers. Never mindless violence – but a day at the football simply wouldn’t be complete without a good all-out fight with the rivals.It’s the era of the silver jubilee, skinheads and bands like sham 69, The Jam, The Clash and The Sex Pistols. Tommy and his mates like nothing better than having a beer, going to a gig and supporting their beloved football team, Sheffield Wednesday. They go to every game, home and away, to enjoy the match – and, of course, to have a good fight.”