THIS IS YORK: Across the bridge and over the river to the Cut & Craft, where our vegetarian hosts indulged us in healthy slabs of tasty beef and we had a spirited argument about how big or small “chips” should be before they should be called fries. I keep my happiness local these days.
THIS IS YORK: After we’d finished work, and soused ourselves in pints at the Golden Ball pub–itself a picture of history on account of the patrons that drank there–we ambled down the streetlamp-lit maze of streets on an uncertain path back to The Grand Hotel. A tempting AND promising Dickensian alley showed itself and proved its mettle, to bed by a reasonable school hour. This was a work trip, after all.
The streets of York curve in a variety of angles, lined on either side by high brick buildings of an interminable age. The effect then is that as you walk along the city’s narrow sidewalks and if you ever bother to look up, you feel hemmed into narrow passageways that disappear around corners, and who knows if you’ll make it out alive. Melodramatic viewpoints helped by skies that will piss rain when they please, stoic, polite British stalwarts whose families have lived here for centuries, and me loping along with a laptop cradled under my right arm and the camera dangling off a strap in my left hand.
Enjoy the eccentricity of it all with a pint of Guinness poured at the local pub, and the bliss comes for free.