Popular resort named among UK's best seaside towns with stunning castle & Tudor streets to get £20m makeover
North Yorkshire Council said £19.5m had been allocated to
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The harbour in the historic seaside town of Scarborough is popular with locals and visitors
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Scarborough's seafront arcades attract thousands of tourists a year
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The towns has been dubbed Scarbados by locals – and the Queen of the Coast
Credit: PA
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Britney Spears performs at Scarborough Open Air Theatre for her Piece Of Me tour in 2018
The authority said it had previously devised a "10-year vision document" following public consultation, which named improving the town centre and bus services as priorities.
Council leader Carl Les said: "The chance to use such a significant amount of funding in Scarborough will bring wide-ranging benefits not just for communities in the town, but also far wider across the region.
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While the locals call it Scarbados, the Queen of the Coast – it has an ancient castle, spectacular cliffs, Tudor streets and two sandy beaches – there is a downside to living in Scarborough.
In 2017, the Office for National Statistics reported the town had the lowest average income in Britain while it has also been described as being a personal bankruptcy hotspot and a social mobility coldspot.
But in recent years the town has been fighting back.
Last month it was named as one of Britain's best seaside towns by Conde Nasté Traveller while there has been something of a cultural renaissance too with the success of the 6,000-capacity Open Air Theatre.
The theatre was reopened by the Queen in 2010 and now claims to be Europe's largest amphitheatre 'since antiquity'.
Most read in Travel
Each year since its renovation it has attracted bigger names to its stage, which sits in the middle of a lake next to England's bracing east coast.
Weston Hotel: Scarborough's Coastal Gem
Promoters Cuffe and Taylor (C&T) book the acts for the council-owned venue and secured the services of Britney Spears in 2018 and Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds twice: in 2016 and 2018.
C&T's Peter Taylor reportedly discovered that one of Spears's representatives is originally from Leeds, and liked the idea of bringing the American superstar to the Yorkshire seaside.
This summer's headliners include The Corrs, Gary Barlow, Pendulum and Shed Seven.
Another group of entrepreneurs, Scarborough Group International, also plans to transform the town's Brunswick Centre into a "dynamic, leisure-led destination", complete with a state-of-the-art cinema.
'Like so many traditional seaside destinations, Scarborough has faced stiff economic challenges, which need to be met with a concerted effort from the authorities and businesses invested in the town," said Mark Jackson, who is leading the project and was born and raised in the town.
"Scarborough has great strengths and remains popular but, for the town centre to thrive, it must evolve to suit a much-changed world."
Liz Colling, chair of the Scarborough and Whitby area committee, said: "Scarborough is such a wonderful place to live, work and visit, but like so many coastal areas, it does need investment."
Additional public spaces and seating areas, as well as further development of the Scarborough Station area, were also named as potential projects in the earlier plan.
Key priorities for people who took part in the consultations included a cleaner, more attractive town centre in Scarborough and more frequent bus services, especially for teenagers and the elderly.
The programme has now been rebranded as the Plan for Neighbourhoods with an expanded remit to improve health and wellbeing along with work, productivity and skills.
It is also aimed at boosting cohesion and education along with opportunities for local communities.
The original ambitions of the national programme, which was previously known as the Long-Term Plan for Towns, also remain and include reviving town centres, regeneration, promoting heritage and culture and addressing safety and security concerns.
Improving transport and connectivity are also key considerations under the initiative.
More public consultation would be carried out before a new plan was submitted by the winter of this year, the council said.
Read more on the Irish Sun
Projects are set to be rolled out from spring 2026.
Councillor Les added: 'The fact that the scope of the Plan for Neighbourhoods has been broadened to the previous incarnation of the scheme gives us an even greater chance to transform Scarborough for residents, businesses and visitors.'
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There is a natural beauty to Scarborough, which boasts two sandy beaches
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Residents say they want improved transport links for their town
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Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds headlined Scarborough Open Air Theatre in 2016 and 2018
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Summer fiction: I Can Do Rude by Maya Kulukundis
It is quite something if a man offers to buy you a fur hat. It is even quite something if a man, with arm twisted, agrees to buy you a fur hat. So, should you find yourself with a man who feels guilty enough and whose pockets you know to be deep, demand it. Say: I want a fur hat and I want you to buy one for me. Sam and I are in New York and today he will do just that. I am not meant to be in New York. I was brought here, a pity-bring, because of what had happened – something common and procedural, about which one must avoid being sentimental – and how it had made me lose my nerve. I had become scared to dress, scared to bathe, and scared, even, to pee, for when naked and looking down at my dipped hips and the downy wisps of my pubic hair, I ached. I had expected Sam to ache too, in solidarity, and hide away with me. For we are lovers, and lovers often mirror one another. But then Sam announced that he was going away, and to Manhattan of all places. He needed to spend a long weekend out of Ireland. To taste again his old American life. But don't you see that I am sad still? I said. And surely you are sad, too? Yes, Sam said. But the world cannot stop every time one is sad. READ MORE I would, however, not let Sam leave me, not so soon, and as his departure day approached, I egged my fears on. I let my bladder fill such that twice, in the middles of nights, it burst, meaning Sam had to wake, carry the sheets to the washing machine, and tell me that I must not be ashamed. Then, eventually, after I screeched and bashed my head against the wall, Sam relented. Fine. I could come. We would stay with his best and cleverest friend, Marcus, and Marcus's girlfriend, Nancy. And it would be good for us; it might even be fun. So long as I behaved and did not make a fuss. Fuss? I said, a bump rising at my hairline. Me? On the plane, emboldened, I pushed for more. And should I behave and make no fuss, what? I said. What do I get? Anything you like, Sam said, tearing his headphones out of their plastic sack. I thought of steely women in extravagant winter clothes, photographs I had seen of Maria Callas, Jackie O. A fur hat, I said. I want a fur hat. I have, in fact, behaved. I have skipped nicely through Sam's old haunts: a corner of Central Park in which, he told me, his ashes would one day be scattered; a cocktail bar downtown in which the hostess hugged him from behind; a fabled deli in the Bronx, in which rotting sausages were strung up like garlands and my nose never quite adjusted, my eyes tick-ticking with the turning meat smell. In every space, the I want has simmered under my tongue, keeping me sweet. And today is our last day so, before we make our way to JFK, the fur-hat-buying has to happen. An oyster grown in sewage would taste only of sewage. But here, you would say it was delicious Yes, Sam said this morning, when I woke and kissed and said, I want. Yes, Sam said, as we followed Marcus into the belly of Grand Central Station, to the Oyster Bar where he had booked a farewell lunch, and I said: I want. Yes, Helena. After lunch, we will go shopping and you shall get. My own fur hat, to have and to hold, a present from my darling beau! An 'abortion present', I clarify, just quiet enough so that Marcus, now sitting opposite us and flattening his napkin on his lap, cannot hear but Sam, next to me, can. He grips my knee under the table: shh, shh. Oysters arrive. We take tiny forks and stab them, teasing each from its shell, severing that fleshy tendon that is like the thin cord on a tongue-tie, tipping our necks back and swallowing. An oyster tastes only of the sea, but here, you should say it is delicious. Delicious, I say. Sam explains about the oysters in New York Harbour, which grew once, were killed off by sewage dumping, but might be made to grow again. An oyster grown in sewage would taste only of sewage. But here, you would say it was delicious. That sounds delicious! I say. I am getting good at New York Talk. Marcus says that he once owned a set of gold-plated forks, all of which, over a decade, had disappeared into people's handbags. And whose handbags were they? He peers at me in joke suspicion, but it is true that I am the outsider here, the stranger who has breakfasted at his breakfast bar and looked up, up, at him offering comments on books – good books, books by Russians- with the hope that he deem me interesting. For that is always the challenge, appealing to the nearest and dearest. But should said dearest be Marcus , whose conversation flips into a glinting shoal of names, many of which, it hits you – is made to hit you through moments of sharp emphasis – are from the depths of your boyfriend's sexual past, stay calm. Change tack. Play the role most easily available to you: meek, sweet, coquette. So now, I fluff my hair, I unzip my purse, I open it wide and hold it up to Marcus's eyes to say: see? No forks in here! Marcus smirks and Sam nods: yes, Helena, correct. Nancy wouldn't join us for lunch. She is reviewing an opera tonight and can't have a social day if work is involved. Or so Marcus said, raising his eyebrows. My darling critic, Marcus calls her. My little workaholic. Anyway, if Nancy does eat lunch, it wouldn't be with me. I was looking in the bathroom mirror earlier and she arrived – for creams or teeth – but when she saw me, she shucked and twisted back for the bedroom, the heels of her slippers slapping against the floor. Marcus, slumped in the living room with the newspaper, caught me on my way to dress and said, You should understand. That girl is not for the mornings. That girl is not for the evenings either. When we all went for cocktails on the first night, Marcus announced that he and Nancy were engaged. Nancy, wearing a huge woollen cape and hunching to hide the width of her shoulders, hunched even lower when Marcus said it. We have decided that we might as well get married. I said nothing, twirled my olive stick. Sam finished his Negroni, and he said nothing too. It was a bar of hard surfaces, the chatter of one table colliding with that of another – and as the saying-nothing continued, I wondered whether Marcus had announced anything at all. Then Sam, loosened, began describing his Dublin life. And I know his Dublin life, I am his Dublin life, but in his telling it was as if he were looking at the life from above, making it all small and dull and squashable. Nancy, sitting up, said, Surely you'll come back to New York? If it's such a dump? And so Sam started on visa-talk – he would need to procure an American wife- and it was as if he were twizzling a needle into the soft corner of my eye which stung, stung such that I was worried I might glitch, say something I shouldn't. I pressed Sam's palm against burning cheek to mean: stop now, please. By the last round, I had reset. I stood on my tiptoes to kiss Marcus nicely on the cheek and Sam nicely on the lips and I thanked them for the evening. Sam put his hand on my back. Of course, my sweet. A pleasure! Marcus said. Nancy stared at me with sharp, green eyes and swished out into the street. Back at the apartment, Nancy balanced on the windowsill, knees tight at her chest and one arm dangling down. Marcus rushed to the guest room where Sam and I were undressing and said, Come, watch this. We crept into the hallway as Marcus sidled up to Nancy with a spliff and cooed, Pspsps , Nancy-Nancy, here's your bedtime joint. She offered her hand. Marcus slid the spliff between her fingers. She lit it, took a long drag, and shooed us all away. Later, when Sam and I were lying together, I asked why he had not congratulated Marcus and Nancy on their engagement. God, he said. I thought that was a joke. He laughed then, a big laugh during which I could see the brown tops of his molars. Well, well. We'll send them flowers after we leave. I do not see why Nancy deserves flowers for she does not play right. She should know never to glare or to round her shoulders. She should know where it is acceptable to turn her sadness or anger on, and to otherwise twist the tap and shut it off. I am younger by 11 whole years, but already much better at this than her. I felt that Sam and I should have sex then, but we had been told to wait for two weeks, lest I risk an infection, and Sam would not take another risk. So, we lay alongside one another, holding hands. And when I began to cry in short, sharp bursts, Sam held the duvet up to make for me a safe and private hideaway: shh, shh. In the morning, Marcus informed us that we had kept him up with our night-time noises. I apologised; Sam buttered his toast with jumpy strokes. No need to apologise! Marcus said. I'm glad someone's having fun here. Nancy stared into her coffee cup and twice she loudly yawned. Marcus says there is a name in New York for girls like me – willowy, eager girls who leap into an older man's bed and bounce. We are, he says, the 'out-of-town ingénues'. He says this as a tease, but even as a tease it makes no sense. I do not bounce. I am stiff in bed, and with Sam, because he made me shy, I was stiffer still. And I am not from a different town, I am from a different world. And now that I exist here, in this American brand of bright light and blue-lipped cold, my world seems completely fragile – as if, with my back turned, it might have been hacked apart into tiny shards and those shards sucked away. I can't, I said. The hole doesn't open. It does, Sam said, that's why we are here The oysters are over. Shells, empty and turned upside down like stony petals on the plate. The waiter appears with a crème brûlée. I don't remember anyone ordering dessert. I must have been distracted; my thinking splintered. Sam hands me a dessert spoon. I tap once at the thin layer of caramelised sugar; it gives; I scoop out the custard. The girl should take the first bite before the men start eating, that's the rule. And isn't it strange that I know this, that I have learned this? It was never the rule at home. Suddenly, I want to stand; I want to press my forehead against Marcus's and to spit, low and fierce, I don't need your forks, whatever the value. I have my own and they are good enough. But I know not to be low or fierce in an oyster bar. It is true, though, that I have done things that I know you should not do. I know that you should not miss pills, or leave gaps longer than 12 hours, but I did. I skipped. I knew that you should track cycles and that there were ways of being careful, but I wasn't. I disconnected. And I knew it was a mistake and mistakes are a source of great stress but when, 10 weeks on, I was shown the images by a so-sorry technician, I felt neither panic nor disgust, but a calm and easy recognition. Like coming upon a favourite jumper at the back of the cupboard drawer. Oh, I thought, so there you are. So, there you are, I sang, on the bus, in the bath. So, there you are; you are there. But for Sam, it was no easy feeling. He drank one glass of water quickly, then another. He opened the fridge and stared inside, at the eggs and the milk and the container we keep for the odd knobs of Parmesan cheese. You are so young, he said. It would be the wrong time. And I suppose it would be silly to have a child instead of living a full life. In bed, Sam was helpful and kind. He sat with me until I moved my chest up and down like a person asleep, whereupon he slipped away to read. Alone, I put my hand on my stomach and pressed in, in, trying to find the beating thing. So, there you were, I whispered. There you were; you were there. We went private and it was all so quick to arrange. In the hospital, Sam was helpful too. They gave me a pill to push into myself to begin loosening my cervix, but I did not understand how to do it, so the woman had to demonstrate with an upwards swoop. She left the room to give me privacy, but I did not want privacy. I wanted to leave. I should not, I began to say, to sob. And Sam was nervous, saying, don't say that. It'll cause problems. In his nervousness, he was sharp, so I tried; I put my fingers inside and pushed but was met by a warm, hard wall, as if I were bringing a vegetable to the mouth of a toddler and smashing, smashing it against their stubborn gums. I can't, I said. The hole doesn't open. It does, Sam said, that's why we are here. I'm not doing it, I said. You have to do it, not me. Sam hesitated. He walked to the door and locked it. He stood over the bed. He took the pill from me. I held my blanket over my nose and mouth and breathed through him – I have slept with this blanket every night for 22 years, he, he was always a 'he', has faded from blue to grey and his corners have worn away from rubbing against my knuckles – and Sam stroked my upper thigh, and then began circling, circling my clitoris with his thumb. He waited for my breathing to slow and to deepen, and then he slid one finger into a space that I myself have never known, and lodged the pill there, where it began to dissolve, prising apart the tight threads of me – I could feel the unlacing, it was a burning like a stitch – and opening my body wider, wide enough so that it would do the thing I couldn't, wouldn't otherwise do: let go. Afterwards, when I came up on a wheeling bed and was instructed to pass urine, Sam hobbled me to the loo. He eased down the gauze knickers that had appeared upon me, and, afterwards, he placed my chin on his shoulder as he ducked, wiped clean the seat and lip of the bowl and flushed, all so that I was not witness to the blood. * The lunch bill arrives in a smart, black jacket and Marcus slips some cash inside. He must be getting on. He has a function to attend. What, I say, is the function of a function? Marcus laughs, ruffles my hair. I duck. Shake him off. Perhaps you should be taking this one along to 47th Street, Sam, he says. What is 47th Street? I say. The Diamond District, Helena, Sam says. We'll save that one for another trip, eh? Marcus unhooks his coat, wishes us a pleasant flight home and makes for the door, trousers bunching under the fat of his buttocks. He is sweating. We all are, having been pummelled for the last hour by the station's central heating. I am excused; I go to the bathroom. My pad is wet through and smells of pennies. I hold it close to smell the penny smell and to check, but, of course – and I am no simple girl, but sometimes the mind plays tricks, it imagines souls where there are no souls, cells where there are no cells – there is nothing there. But even so, I want. I lean against the stall wall and I want. I roll the pad up, bin it, replace it. When I return, Sam is holding out my coat. I am threaded through the sleeves, the I want pulsing in me as little, precious shocks. I shiver into them. For to know that you want, that you can want – wanting being the fullest feeling, the only one that will ever ache the whole of you – is a rare and a magical thing. So, if you have had a want, understand it. Own it. Twist it into something real. Sam, I say, taking his hands in mine. I want my fur hat. Yes, sweetheart. Let's get you your fur hat. We walk together. Sam swings my arm in a game and he is chatting to me, freely, happily. It has been good. Good to have me along. He is mine again, now that Marcus has gone. When we reach the Fur District, Sam explains about wholesalers. A wholesaler means that no money is spent on the customer experience. The salesmen and women do not have to be nice to us. In fact, they may be rude. I can do rude, I say. We step down a dip and into a shop. It is dark and dusty. Bare mannequins loom in the window, arms bent into awkward angles as if engaged in timid dance. A man emerges from a basement place and asks what it is we want. We want a fur hat, Sam says. Fox, preferably. Pillbox. The man produces a wooden pole. He hooks down a series of hats that hang high on the wall: hats with stripy tails, hats that are dyed green and purple, fur-lined baseball caps of wrinkling brown leather. Not quite, Sam says. Something plainer, grander. In black. The man grunts. Nothing for you today. Try tomorrow. We fly tonight, Sam says. We will go elsewhere. Goodbye! I say. Thanks for all your help! We climb back on to the street and I am imagining my fur hat. I am imagining strutting through this city with my hat in my arms: black and fox and grand and soft. I will be a woman of great power, with my fur hat. A woman who does not care about cruelty. A woman who looks you in the eye and dares you – just dares you – to throw red paint. Maya Kulukundis Maya Kulukundis recently completed an MPhil in creative writing at the Oscar Wilde Centre. Her publications include stories in Banshee and the anthology Tidings (Lilliput Press, 2024). She was awarded an IWC Duo Mentorship in 2023 and was selected for the Stinging Fly six-month fiction workshop in 2024. She is working on a short story collection
The Irish Sun
8 hours ago
- The Irish Sun
Wynne Evans accuses BBC's Strictly Come Dancing of being ‘fundamentally flawed' in its duty of care
WELSH opera singer Wynne Evans has accused the BBC's Strictly Come Dancing of being "fundamentally flawed in its duty of care". The tenor, 53, known for the insurance advertisements, competed in the 20th anniversary series of the hit dancing programme with professional dancer Advertisement 4 Go Compare singer Wynne Evans claims BBC's Strictly is 'fundamentally flawed in its duty of care' after he was 'dropped' by the corporation Credit: PA 4 Opera singer was 'close to the edge' while battling illness and claims BBC 'twisted facts' Credit: Rex 4 He says he was told not to trust anyone in rehearsal room and BBC engaged in 'lies and cover-ups' to protect themselves Credit: Chris Eades In May, The apology came after the Mail On Sunday reported in January he had aimed a sexual joke at one of the other professional dancers, In an Instagram post with a photo of the Strictly professionals, Evans said: "What it Feels Like to See Pictures of Strictly? "I'll be the first to admit I've made mistakes. Not quite the way the Daily Mail would have you believe, but mistakes all the same." Advertisement Read more on strictly Evans accused the BBC of engaging in a series of "lies and cover-ups in order to absolve themselves of any wrongdoing" and said this was the "hardest part" for him. He added: "From my dealings right at the very top with (BBC director-general) Tim Davie, through BBC Wales and the HR department, one feeling has been constant: the only thing they truly care about is protecting themselves and their jobs and Ratings - people come second. "When I first stepped into the rehearsal room at Strictly, I thought it would be a magical experience. And at the start, it was. But the very first thing I was told was: 'Don't trust anyone in this room - not even me.' "That hit me hard. I've always worn my heart on my sleeve, and while I may sometimes sail close to the line, there's never malice in what I do. Advertisement Most read in News TV "What I wasn't prepared for was the way people will protect their personal and BBC brands, at any cost." Evans claimed in his post that the HR department "twisted facts, invented files and dates, and created a version of events that simply wasn't true". Wynne Evans reveals heartbreaking conversation he had with his daughter after Strictly sacking shame "Statements were issued in my name that I hadn't even seen, let alone agreed to. My voice was taken away," he said. Evans previously said he had never approved of the statement that was issued by the BBC in January in which he apologised for making an "inappropriate and unacceptable" comment. Advertisement At the time, a BBC spokesperson said: "The apology issued on Wynne's behalf by the Strictly Come Dancing Tour PR representative on Saturday January 25 was fully approved by Wynne." Evans also said in his post on Tuesday: "Tim Davie publicly promised that the BBC would safeguard people who took part in Strictly. "I thought about that promise while sitting in a psychiatrist's office near the BBC, staring out of the window at the BBC building, fighting to save my own life. That's how close I came to the edge. "I'm not writing this as a victim, as I said I will own my mistakes. I'm writing it because the system is broken. Advertisement "Strictly is now fundamentally flawed in its duty of care. It's allowed to continue because of ratings, while people's wellbeing is left in tatters." The BBC published a review in 2024 that looked into allegations of bullying and harassment against former Strictly dancer Giovanni Pernice, made by his former dance partner Amanda Abbington. The corporation upheld some but not all of the complaints made and introduced a series of new measures aimed at improving welfare. This included the introduction of a chaperone who is present "at all times" during training room rehearsals. Advertisement Evans performed in the 25th anniversary of The Phantom Of The Opera and won 2023's Celebrity MasterChef. In May, he told the Sun that the comment he made on the Strictly Come Dancing tour was not sexual or directed at one of the female cast, but instead was a nickname for fellow contestant, EastEnders actor Jamie Borthwick. In June, the opera singer announced his return to radio with The The BBC declined to comment on Evans' social media post. Advertisement The Sun has contacted the BBC for comment. 4 Evans said he was dropped by the BBC after apologising for using 'inappropriate language' Credit: Mark Ferguson
