The Disappearance of the 22-Year-Old Child
Whitby | Thursday 13th August 2026
Intro
What began as a glorious summer day of markets, books, chance encounters and several hours on Whitby beach ended rather differently.
My suggestion of a relaxing evening watching the sunset and twilight from St Mary’s churchyard became a half-hour search for my 22-year-old daughter, who had developed a remarkably expansive interpretation of hide-and-seek.
Somewhere between mild annoyance, genuine panic and contemplating North Yorkshire Police, Thursday acquired a story none of us was likely to forget.
BLOG
We left the flat around mid-morning, heading into a hot, sun-drenched Whitby. The weather was glorious—bright sunshine and deep blue sky—and what could have been a straightforward morning of errands quickly dissolved into a surprisingly sociable trail of encounters. By the time we’d collected breakfast, wandered through the harbour market, and visited a few local shops, I’d acquired a £6 pocket watch, a few books, and the names of roughly nine different people.
Among the high street bustle, I stumbled across one of my favourite incidental discoveries of the day: a shop window crammed with historical memorabilia. It wasn’t a museum, just a store window I’d happened upon while leaving the girls to choose dresses. Inside sat old engravings, First World War items, a 1944–45 ration book, vintage advertisements, and an old Youth Hostels Association junior membership card from 1964. It was precisely the sort of thing I enjoy finding—not a planned attraction, but an unexpected detail that rewards stopping to look properly.
The afternoon was spent down on the sand. I hired a traditional blue-and-white striped deckchair for £4 plus a £1 deposit—which I forgot to reclaim, technically giving me Whitby’s finest £5 four-pound deckchair. While the girls swam in the North Sea, I stayed on the beach reading a Whitby detective novel, occasionally looking up at the actual sea. Eventually, an advancing tide evicted us from the sand altogether, forcing us into an ankle-deep retreat up the steps with our gear.
After dinner at Pescado Lounge, I suggested we walk up the 199 Steps to St Mary’s churchyard. I thought it would be nice to sit on a bench overlooking Whitby and the sea to watch the twilight. “It’ll be relaxing,” I’d said.
That statement did not age well.
Upon reaching the bench, my 22-year-old daughter Katie announced she wanted to play hide-and-seek. Before we could object, she vanished into the fading light. After a few minutes, I went to look for her, but the graveyard is vast. Search turns into concern very quickly when your adult child doesn’t have her phone—Zoe had it in her bag. Ten minutes passed, then twenty. I searched among the headstones and all the way to the Whitby Abbey car park. Nothing.
By the half-hour mark, mild worry had turned into genuine panic. I returned to the bench and asked Zoe to check our phones for the most recent photograph of Katie, calculating how much longer we should wait before calling North Yorkshire Police. The fact that I’d spent the afternoon reading a Whitby murder mystery was doing absolutely nothing for my nerves.
At 21:25, Katie casually reappeared. Having hidden for a few minutes, she’d decided to stretch the geographical boundaries of hide-and-seek. She had left the churchyard entirely, walked over to the YHA café, used the loo, and wandered slowly back.
When she realised I had been genuinely terrified, she offered an affectionate, “Aw, you must really love me”—a claim I naturally confirmed. To complete the symmetry, she then confessed she had briefly panicked because she couldn’t locate our bench on her return.
Once safely reunited, the entire crisis immediately transformed into comedic material. We retreated to Wetherspoons, where I announced that after preparing a missing-persons report, I required a medicinal drink. Katie bought me a double Malibu and Pepsi—a fitting peace offering from the recently missing. Back at the flat later with puddings and whipped cream, I read my written account of The Disappearance aloud while Katie repeatedly interrupted with live commentary from the defence.
Not quite the relaxing evening I’d advertised, but certainly a memorable one.
REFLECTION
Looking back, Thursday captured something I love about travelling: you can never quite predict which part of a day will become its story. The markets, conversations, historical discoveries and hours on the beach would already have made it memorable.
Instead, a supposedly relaxing twilight introduced thirty minutes of growing genuine fear, followed almost immediately by laughter once Katie was safely back beside us.
Perhaps that’s why the ridiculous moments become such good memories — although next time, the 22-year-old child is taking her phone.
Jess Ambrosine