Winding through Robin Hood's Bay, Yorkshire, England

"Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to drive to the bottom of the hill," stated my guide book. My husband and I were entering tiny, cobblestone-ridden Robin Hood's Bay (no relation to the prince of thieves) in Yorkshire, and found ourselves at the top of a San Francisco-esque hill, adjacent to the very car park (parking lot) our book predicted would be there. Now, we had a choice: continue driving down, or park and walk.

In spite of my husband's driving bravado, we decided to go by the book, and pay a few pence to park. (The car parks use a "pay and display" technique: buy a sticker at the machine in the lot, and stick it inside your windshield. We did see policemen checking them periodically, and the fine for failing to display is about $100.) Leaving the cute Smart car behind, we began scaling the vertiginous hill.

Because we were in town on a March weekday morning, unfortunately, most of the charming craft and souvenir shops were closed (during the off-season, they open on weekends only). It was nonetheless a pleasure to trip down the Alice in Wonderland-like cobblestone paths and peer into the scores of rental cottages set into the craggy rocks and wildflowers. We discovered one open antiques shop filled with beautiful wooden chairs, bone snuff boxes, and other genuinely old English items we couldn't dream of affording.

As we proceeded further down the hill, we saw at least three trucks pass us, some at a clip, and we started thinking we'd been duped by the guide book. When one truck stopped to unload at a tiny food mart, my husband wondered aloud why our book had said we couldn't drive down.

"You can't," the truck driver agreed. "When high tide rolls in, you'll get stuck at the bottom."

Wonderingly, we continued to the bottom of the hill, where we found low tide washing right up on our feet, and a single ice cream truck brazenly parked on the sand and steadied with rocks.  A sign warned drivers to remove themselves before the tide returned, and helpfully provided a number for the Coast Guard, should the tide come in unexpectedly soon.

After watching the swells of water eddying around the wet sand, we climbed the hill again and located a cute, modern-looking place appropriately named Swell. This turns out to be a gift shop/cafe/cinema that specializes in natural and organic foods as well as in exotic alcoholic drinks including burdock/dandelion root beer and blood orange/mandarin spritzer. Prices are moderate, and the place has a clean and convenient bathroom inside (enter through the cinema door).

After climbing back up the hill, we finished our visit perched above the town, gazing out over the far hills and the water below.

Robin Hood's Bay truly is picturesque as a storybook, a page from the dream-paintings of one's mind. Just be sure to park at the top, and let your heart soar out to sea.

The Victorian Spa Town of Scarborough

Archly situated on a cliff, gazing down on a beach that curves wide and long into a far collection of dollhouse-like houses climbing the rocky ledges, stand the vaulting, shining-windowed spa hotels of Scarborough in North Yorkshire, England. Birthed from a magical healing spring (the mineral-rich waters were discovered near the town during the 1620s, quickly leading to bottled water, bathing machines and, by 1875, a cliff tram), Scarborough still throngs today with enough tourists to fill an overabundance of bed and breakfasts, and a few decadently huge hotels that dominate the landscape.

My husband and I were recommended to the Crown Spa Hotel. We arrived at 9 p.m. after getting quite lost (there is one road that leads down to the Grand Hotel, against which we were recommended,  and one beside it that leads vertiginously up to the cliff, where The Crown stands in tandem with several other behemoths. We first took the wrong road).

The warmly-lit Crown features a lobby populated by forest-green and burgundy leather sofas and armchairs, all of which have shockingly deep cushions. I would have sat in one all day, had it not meant missing the surroundings--and the spa.

Admittedly, we were hesitant at first about staying at The Crown: 99 pounds per night meant approximately $200, and we wouldn't have time to enjoy the spa in the evening before it closed at 10 p.m. The friendly woman at the desk offered us a full-day pass for the following day plus free parking, and knocked the price down to 95 pounds but said she couldn't do any better. She kindly called ahead to another hotel to allow us to compare accommodations (they were charging 80 pounds).

After a visit, I determined that I didn't like the second hotel as much, and we returned to The Crown. The desk woman was so pleased that we'd returned, she knocked the price down to 75 pounds.

The Crown's basement is a full health spa with a sparkling gym, men's and women's locker rooms, and several healing rooms that made me feel as indulged as a delicate Victorian. I entered through the glass door etched "Pool/Sauna/Aroma." After passing a few showers created exclusively for foot washing, I found a blue-tiled, low pool with faux Roman statues throughout. At the beginning of March on a Monday morning, it was nearly empty and serene, with pool noodles available for water play. I chose to instead take my place in the large "spa pool," a warm bath with air jets. The tiled underwater ledge bubbled both warm and cold water at once.

Following a soak, I discovered a second room filled with lounge chairs, and surrounded by more glass-doored rooms: two saunas, a steam room, and one mysteriously marked "Aroma." I began with a hot sauna that proved to be too hot; then, tested a second sauna that was cooler. This one featured a ceiling dotted with pinpoints of light that slowly changed colors. I lay there enchanted, watching the spectrum of constellations until I could no longer breathe the heat, and moved to the steam room. This felt like walking into a fiery cloud where water condensed in my mouth and rolled down the back of my throat.

I retreated and, at last, entered the dimly-lit aroma room. I was greeted with perfumed warm air, absinthe-green glowing wall sconces, a trickling wall fountain and heated tiles. Lying back on a tile ledge, I breathed the pervasive scent of an essential oil mixture called "restore." I lay in the silence and inhaled subtle curls of scent.

Relaxed, my husband and I took a stroll outside along the "spa bridge," a long cement footbridge that connects the cliffbound hotels to its ground-level sisters, and  down steep staircases set into the cliff and curving toward the "spa complex." This is the restored sprawling building where the Victorians used to go for their treatments and rest. While the structure is currently closed for renovations, it was still awe-inspiring to see the many-domed, Gothic-style complex reveal itself through the skeletal trees. With an area for outdoor performances, a theater, and untold rooms within, the structure evokes a time when those who could afford to celebrated life as ostentatiously as life itself gave them time to do.

There is no fair in Scarborough. But there may well be the scent of rosemary, and the sweet, delicate smell of time.