I went to Whitby on November 1st, the day after Halloween, right in the middle of Goth Weekend. Honestly, I had no clue what I was walking into. The second I got there, it felt like I’d stumbled into another universe. The sea air was sharp and salty, and there was this buzz in the atmosphere. The narrow, cobbled streets were packed with people dressed head-to-toe in black lace veils, dramatic makeup and long Victorian coats. Music spilled out of old cafes, the harbour sparkled under the cold autumn sky, and everything just felt a little surreal and theatrical.
Whitby’s got a lot going for it: those crumbling abbey ruins, the wild cliffs hanging over the North Sea, and, of course, its claim to fame as the home of Dracula. Bram Stoker found his spark here, and you can see why. I climbed the 199 steps up to Whitby Abbey, watched the clouds roll in, and honestly, it felt like I’d wandered right into a gothic novel. The whole place soaks you in mystery.
He's only about two inches tall, with a silly grin, a tiny cape, and these miniature fangs
At some point, I ducked into a little shop jammed with gothic oddities and antiques. That’s where I spotted him, a tiny glass Dracula. Not scary at all, actually kind of cute. He’s only about two inches tall, with a silly grin, a tiny cape, and these miniature fangs. Something about him just clicked. He wasn’t just a trinket; he felt like a piece of Whitby itself—spooky, yes, but also quirky and full of life.
Now he sits on my desk at home. Every time I see him, I’m right back in those chilly Whitby streets—the laughter, the costumes, the sea breeze, that sense of stepping into a legend. It reminds me that traveling isn’t just about ticking off places. It’s about how a place sinks into you. Souvenirs don’t have to be fancy to matter. Sometimes the smallest thing carries the biggest story. For me, that little glass Dracula from Whitby is pure magic.