Scarborough Pipe & Cigar Journal

 I once met an old stationmaster who claimed you could tell the mood of Scarborough by the timbre of the whistle at Seamer Junction. Sharp and quick? Rain coming in off the bay. Slow and drawn out? The tourists had clogged the platforms again. He told me this over a pint at The Newcastle Packet, pipe smouldering in one hand, the other clutching a faded signal log from 1954. His pipe was a weighty old briar — cracked at the bowl, but still drawing beautifully. A working man’s pipe. A railway man’s pipe. Steel and Smoke: A Day in the Life Back then, railway men worked to the rhythm of steam and signal. The guards, the firemen, the telegraph boys — each with a pipe for the waiting. They didn’t rush. Trains didn’t rush. Everything had its place, its pace. At Falsgrave Yard, just behind where Sainsbury’s car park now sprawls, men once gathered around a brazier before dawn, lighting up in the thin dark. You’d see a few bent stems glowing in the gloom. I imagine one of them — maybe T...

  There are lines drawn across the land that no longer appear on maps. But if you live in Scarborough — if you walk the woods behind Seamer, or trace the valley footpaths near Burniston — you begin to see them. Old railway beds, forgotten bridges, crumbling platforms that haven’t felt a boot heel in fifty years. Scarborough was once stitched into the fabric of Yorkshire by steam. Not just by the great trunk line from York, but by the smaller, humbler routes that wound their way in and out of the town like roots from an old tree. The Forge Valley Line: Ghosts in the Green Perhaps the most romantic of the vanished lines was the Forge Valley Line , opened in 1882. It ran from Seamer Junction to Pickering, winding through Ayton, Forge Valley, and Thornton-le-Dale. A gentle route, threading woodland and water, it was famed for its picturesque views — even at a time when “picturesque” wasn't something people used to describe commutes. By the 1950s, the line had fallen out of fashion...

  Scarborough’s a town built on layers. You can feel it under your feet — that sense there’s more going on beneath the cobbles than most people notice. It’s in the wind, in the stone, and, if you know where to look, in the cracks and crevices tucked into every alley off Eastborough. Bertie and I were out early this morning, and as he barrelled down the path behind the harbour like a dog late for his shift on the lifeboat, I stopped to tie my boot and spotted it again — the bricked-up archway halfway up the old smugglers’ steps. You can barely see it now, covered in ivy and time, but it’s there. And if you listen carefully, it almost hums with the weight of untold stories. Tobacco in the Walls We know this much: in the 18th and 19th centuries, Scarborough was a hotbed for smugglers. Tobacco, brandy, silk — all slipped ashore by lantern light, then hidden in cellars, behind false walls, or down narrow stone tunnels that burrowed beneath pubs, fishmongers, and chapel basements. A...

  Before the ice cream stalls and seafront amusements, Scarborough’s heartbeat was cast out over the water — tugged in with each haul of herring, cod, and mackerel. Long before tourism built its empire of hotels and bandstands, it was the boats that made Scarborough a town of pride and grit. I walked the Old Pier this morning — gulls wheeling, the scent of diesel and seaweed rising with the sun — and thought of the men who worked these docks a century ago. The herring girls, the net menders, the lads with salt in their blood and rope burns on their palms. Hard men. Honest ones. And more often than not, men with a plug of twist tobacco in their cheek and a hand-carved pipe stowed in their oilskin pocket. The Lifeblood of the North Sea By the mid-19th century, Scarborough was one of the most important fishing ports on England’s east coast. At its height, over 200 fishing vessels operated out of the harbour — from long-liners and cobles to the more powerful steam trawlers that e...

  Wandering through Scarborough’s alleys and arcades, one can’t help but wonder at all that’s vanished. Not the buildings — they often remain, albeit changed — but the hands that once worked inside them. The town once pulsed with trades now all but gone: cobblers, coopers, comb-makers, and of course, the proud barber–tobacconist. Yes, the two often came together. A gent could step in for a shave, a haircut, and leave with an ounce of Virginia blend or a new shaving brush made from horsehair. These were shops of scent and ritual — lime cologne, sandalwood soap, cherry tobacco and bay rum. The Barber’s Domain On Longwestgate, where a newsagent now stands, there was once a barbershop known for its curved window and leather strop hanging by the mirror. Inside: a red-tiled floor, porcelain basin, and a shelf lined with pots and tins — grooming pomades, moustache waxes, and shaving soap cakes wrapped in waxed paper. Today, few remember that Scarborough had its own brush makers and r...

There’s a stretch of Eastborough, just off the harbour, where the cobbles seem to echo the ghost-steps of bowler-hatted men. And if you’re like me — the sort to walk slowly, nose in the sea breeze and eyes tracing lintels — you’ll find remnants of a forgotten Scarborough. One where tobacconists weren’t niche hobbyists, but pillars of a genteel society. In the Victorian age, Scarborough boasted no fewer than six proper tobacconists within the town centre alone — not counting the barbers who sold twist from their counters, or the apothecaries who measured snuff with brass spoons. These were proud establishments: mahogany interiors, bevelled glass, Persian rugs, and the quiet confidence of long clientele lists. They served Spa guests, naval officers, theatre managers, visiting clergy, and travelling tradesmen — each with a preferred cut, a favourite bowl, and a loyalty that lasted decades. The Pipe as Presence: From the Esplanade to the Spa Saloon The Victorian man took his pipe seri...