The waves rose with growing fury, each over-topping its fellow, till in a very few minutes the lately glassy sea was like a roaring and devouring monster. White-crested waves beat madly on the level sands and rushed up the shelving cliffs. Others broke over the piers, and with their spume swept the lanthorns of the lighthouses which rise from the end of either pier of Whitby harbour.
(Bram Stoker. Dracula)
But in those remote days the one inn of Whitby was up a back yard, and oyster shell grottoes were the only view fom the best private room.