Whitby - No Vampires

Mid-week, close season had been prudent.
‘The garlic must be good,’ I thought, loading my holdall in the back of the hatchback. No vampires.
I chose a local tavern for lunch, followed by the leisurely drive home from my writer’s break.
The tavern was tiny. A fisherman sat in his oilskin weatherproofs and fluorescent garb. He had a rather smart looking neckerchief but it was well worn. ‘29’ 15” N, 36’ 53” W’ he kept muttering.
I felt sorry for him.
‘And put a drink in for him,’ I said, when paying.
‘Who for?’
The owner looked very puzzled.