THE HAVEN ‘A witch, Guv?’ They have turned into a narrow truncated street that appears sheared off to the sky. It can only be an optical illusion, caused by the upward slope, and a cliff top. Indeed this is Whitehaven, northern England’s most westerly outpost, perched on the edge of the Irish Sea, two centuries ago a major commercial port for coal and iron ore. Today it is the haunt of tourists admiring the fortified harbour that withstood American raiders during the War of Independence, and its intact Georgian town plan, reputedly the inspiration for the design of New York City. Parallax aside, George Place on the outskirts of the small town is no Fifth Avenue. A mere three parked vehicles ranged against a dozen satellite dishes tell their own tale; the properties bleak and harled and huddled, and fronting directly onto the patchy asphalt of the inadequate sidewalk. Skelgill conducts the car with care as they count the numbers; it turns out the house they seek is the last on the left, its nameplate ‘The Haven’.
