Day 1, Arriving in York
Our big silver bus rumbled out
of Chester and turned north east toward our next stop, York.We had left a hot
and muggy London just a few days ago but as our circuitous journey across the
lower half of England continued, the weather turned cooler and it began to
rain. Anita, our gregarious English
guide, true to her character and position had kept us entertained on these long
road trips by mixing a fine blend of history and local gossip (ex: tabloid
pictures of Prince Harry in his birthday suit in Las Vegas) with samples of quintessential
English food and drink to wash it down with. Along the way she’s served us a variety of English candies she called
“sweeties”, blood pudding, creamy cheddar cheese from the village of Cheddar in south west
England, some meat paste that tasted suspiciously like animal parts that even my
mother would have thrown out and she could eat anything, single malt Scotch whisky,
and a favorite around King Arthur’s round table, mead (wine made with honey).
While Anita chatted pleasantly
on the rain had increased and by the time we entered the suburbs of York, the
streets had turned into iridescent ribbons leading us into the heart of the
city. And what suburbs they were! Row after row of proper English manors festooned
with hydrangeas the size of dinner plates sat regally on large expanses of
immaculately groomed lawns.
We continued
down the tree lined street, appropriately called Blossom, gawking like the
tourists we were when there looming in front of us was the grandest medieval
entrance to a city I had ever seen. It
was Micklegate Bar, the main gate to York. I was awestruck. It practically shouted of York's considerable prestige, wealth and military might. I certainly got the message as well as, I imagine, any medieval invading force foolish enough to take them on.
Michlegate Bar on the south side of York.
The Queen must stop at Micklegate Bar and ask
permission
Of the Lord Mayor to enter the city.
Boothham Bar, another of York's imposing gates.
(Note: Bar
is a Viking word for gate, whereas gate is Norwegian for street so Micklegate Bar would actually be Mickle Street Gate!)
We arrived at our hotel, the
Park Inn on North Street around 4PM and as soon as our baggage was unloaded we
grabbed our raincoats and umbrellas and joined Anita for a short introductory
tour of York. With "whisperers" around our necks, (a listening devise with an earpiece
that kept us from crowding around her like a gaggle of ducklings) we set off.
Turning left from the
hotel we walked to Bridge Street, crossed over the River Ouse and headed for
one of the most interesting streets in York called the Shambles. It was raining quite hard and ominously dark by the time we got there
which made the narrow little cobblestone street feel like a page out of a Dickens novel. Especially so after I heard Anita tell us through our whisperers, "The word “shambles” is an obsolete term for open-air
slaughter houses. And if that isn’t
gruesome enough, running down the center of the street is a sunken Roman style
drain where the butchers would throw discarded carcass bits to be swept
away." No wonder that the word “shambles”
came to mean a big time mess! Now it is
one of the best preserved medieval market streets in Britain and it smells a
lot better too, fortunately for us.
The Shambles
Interesting note, the street was
probably narrow to keep sunlight off of the carcasses.
As we exited the Shambles, the streets opened
up into cheerfully lit broad thoroughfares filled with very well dressed
people hurrying to get out of the rain and into the many restaurants and pubs. The ladies were dressed to the nines wearing
hats and fascinators (those tiny little hatlings which perch precariously on
the side of one’s head). They had been
celebrating Yorkshire’s Ebor Festival at the race track and the atmosphere in
the streets was electric with excitement, and the evening had just begun.
Looking past the happy groups of
revelers, I couldn't help checking out the latest fashions in the many upscale shops.
I began to realize that ladies clothing here and elsewhere tended to
fall into two camps. There seemed to be
either the lady of the manor style, which consisted of a twin set, wool skirt
and sturdy shoes or something I began to identify as Shabby Retro. In America, retro would be a modern take on
clothing dating back a few decades; however in England it was more like
centuries! The style seems to consist of a blend of period costume with well-worn T-shirts.Definitely a fun look for the young at heart.
This one looks
like a Edwardian rendition of mom’s old bathrobe accessorized with brother’s
combat boots. If I were in my twenties,
I would have told them to wrap it up!
We went back to our hotel to dry
out and together enjoy a hot meal of “Curried Parsnip Soup, Honey Roast Bacon
Loin, and Mango, Ginger and Orange Sponge with Custard”.I have to tell you
that I had nothing but the most delicious meals in
England. If anyone ever tells you English
food is bland and tasteless, sneer and asks them where they got their
misinformation. It’s not your Granny’s
Britain any longer!
Settling in for the night I
realized that I had hit the jackpot with my room.The hotel was located right on the
River Ouse and I had a panoramic view of York and York Minster from the comfort
of my bed. Sweet!
View from my room overlooking the
River Ouse and York Minster in the distance.
Next time: York Minster, Walking the Wall, York Museum and the Viking Experience
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