“Aye,” the woman  said, joining me at the gate. “She’s the last of her kind. Time was every ­village round here had its winter donkey.” I watched as the patient animal slowly approached. When she was within reach, I stroked her. The withers of her thick winter coat were soft and warm, and enticed a flurry of pats. Her long, intelligent ears thanked me. Donkeys do a lot of talking with their ears. Nostrils sending up a light steam in the frost, her nose gently read me as she stared with those probing eyes. “Scarborough, Whitby, Filey,” the woman continued. “Used to be full of donkeys, and of course there had to be somewhere for them to go come winter. This was their ­holidays.” As though in memory of the golden shore of sum