As I promised I would some months ago, I'm heading off to York tomorrow after work. I've really warmed to the north (of England) of late. I didn't really know and/or trust it previously. I'd rarely been there, and then it was usually en route to somewhere else.
Mind you, I mustn't fall into the trap of defining the whole of the north of England as some charming, homogeneous entity. It's as varied as anywhere else - more so in fact. When you consider Liverpool and Manchester are 35 miles apart, their cultural difference from one another is staggering. That's the joy of this country, it's incredible diversity. We're losing it of course, in this age of instant communication, but it's still there. I intend to sample as much of it as I can before it's snuffed out by smart phones and shit pop music. The mission continues tomorrow.
I do have a little problem though. I've foolishly eschewed beer for Lent, and York is home to more good real pubs than you can shake a stick at. You don't even have to plan your evening in advance and track them down, as in other cities. Every pub in York will have a tremendous array of ales. You simply walk in, shake the rain off and point to a nearest beer pump. Whatever's in the barrel beneath it will be superb, 'appen.
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