Scarborough Pipe & Cigar Journal

There’s something about Scarborough that never quite leaves you — and I don’t just mean the sea air in your coat. I mean the way the buildings catch the light, the lean of the old rooftops, the forgotten archways bricked up long ago. This town was carved, stacked, and braced with personality. You don’t walk through Scarborough — you read it. From the curve of The Crescent’s Regency sweep to the layered eccentricity of the Old Town cottages, every building here seems to be in quiet conversation with the sea. And just like the perfect artisan pipe, the best architecture is not loud or showy — it’s expressive, functional, and rooted in character. The Grand Hotel & the Rise of Seaside Prestige Let’s begin with the crown jewel — The Grand Hotel . When it opened in 1867, it was the largest hotel in Europe. A triumph of Victorian ambition, its design was built around the calendar: four towers (seasons), twelve floors (months), 52 chimneys (weeks), and 365 rooms (days). Symmetry, symbo...

 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...

There was a time when Scarborough didn’t just face the sea — it faced the future. And nowhere was that more vivid than in the sweeping white curve of The Futurist Theatre. Built in 1921, standing proudly along Foreshore Road, it wasn’t just another seaside stage. It was Scarborough’s promise to itself: that glamour and culture belonged just as much here on Yorkshire’s edge as they did in London or New York. I was young when I first stepped through its doors. The carpet was a bit threadbare by then, the lights slightly dimmed from their glory days, but it still had that smell — aged wood, brass polish, and the faint trace of old cigarette smoke clinging to velvet. A proper theatre. A place for voices and stories. The sort of place where a lad could feel he’d stepped into something grand. Years later, I’d find myself stood on that same promenade, only now in silence. The theatre gone, the dust still settling. In one hand, a Cuban cigar — slowly drawn, smoke rising like ghosts. --- Theatr...

  Scarborough is a town of layers. Not just sandstone and seaweed, but history, salt air, music, and slow ritual. This morning, I strolled the South Cliff Gardens just as the Spa complex below was shaking off its morning mist. You could hear the faint tuning of strings from the Grand Hall — a violin warming up, or perhaps a cello brushing the bones of the building. In Victorian times, gentlemen and ladies descended the zigzag paths in top hats and bonnets to take the waters — to imbibe health through ceremony. Everything was an occasion: the stroll, the sip, the cigar lit at just the right moment after luncheon. It struck me how little has changed, really — how we still crave that sense of curated pause. Rituals of Refinement I sat on a worn bench beside a weathered balustrade, the kind of stone that feels like it's soaked up two centuries of conversation. From my coat pocket I drew a pipe — not just any pipe, but a Dunhill. A proper English instrument. The kind you could imag...

North-Easterlies & Night-Times: Tobacco Reflections on a Scarborough Breeze It was one of those Scarborough mornings where the sun shone sharp as a sailor’s knife, but the wind came biting up from the North Sea — that sly old North Easterly that whistles past your ears no matter how snug the collar. I took Bertie down to the beach, and he, of course, went tearing after the foam like a creature without a care in the world. I, on the other hand, had packed for the weather: thick wool, hip flask, and a well-chosen flake. But what I didn’t expect was the companion that’s been stealing my afternoon thoughts all week — a rather dark and mysterious tin that smells faintly of port, old wood, and far-off adventure. A blend called Black Frigate , if you can believe it. Rum-soaked, pressed with Latakia and Perique, it tastes like something a pirate might have smoked while staring down a cannon broadside. That’s the joy of new arrivals. Not gadgets or gear — no, I mean blends. Leaf. Character....

There’s something about Scarborough mornings that’s impossible to replicate. Perhaps it’s the cry of the gulls echoing off the headland, or the scent of brine and kelp in the sea breeze as I trudge barefoot across the North Bay sands, my terrier Bertie bounding ahead like a creature born of salt and mischief. Today’s swim was brisk — the North Sea is never warm — but it set me up for the day. After drying off and tugging on my waxed jacket, I fished out a pouch of  St. Bruno Flake  from my inside pocket. The flake is dark and leathery, with the telltale tin-note of figs and fermented hay. Sitting on a driftwood log, I rubbed it out into ribbons and packed my trusty Peterson. Lighting up with the wind at my back, I was struck once again by the depth of St. Bruno — a bold, fruity smoke that cuts through the chill like a warming dram. It’s a tobacco that belongs here, among the windswept rocks and grey gull-sky. Not fussy, but full of character. Much like Scarborough itself. Toba...