Gorge North

Well, we had a simply splendid weekend in YERK-shuh.  The weather was pretty good too - better than forecast anyways.  We rolled in to York Station at 9.30 Friday evening, immediately stopped at the pub in the station, which is lovely, and had a sharpener.  Thence to the hotel.  Bags dumped, and off to a pub nearby that we hadn't previously patronised.  It, like every pub I've ever sought shelter in in York, was super - cosy and with a great range of ales.

On Saturday, we caught the trans-Pennine train to Hebden Bridge.  HB is to lesbians what Brighton is to gay men.  It a glorious town, nestling in the cleavage of The Calder Valley.  We mooched around there for a few hours, browsing and eating cake.  Lovely.

Saturday night back in York was greatest hits tour of pubs we knew and some virgin ones that Mrs O had specced-out.  We ended the night with a splendid curry.  The more I see of Yorkshire, the more I like it.  Like Steve Bushemi.

Holiday

I'm demob-happy today, which when you consider I'm only going to York for the weekend is probably something of an overreaction.  It just goes to show you have take your jollies where you can when you're a man of a certain age.  In my 20s, I'd need to be flying to New York and a tear-up at Studio 54 before I got excited.  As much as I love York, it's unlikely to be overrun with former members of Chic, or Bianca Jagger on a horse.

As tradition dicates, I've spent a king's ransom on nibbles and drinks for the one-hour and fifty-five-minute train journey that one has to endure in order to get there.  If things go according to plan, in a little over two hours' time, I should be drunk and pretending to read a fashionable and difficult novel.  Yes, I wear round glasses.  What of it?

The north will rise again.

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.

York Shyer Pie

Well, well, what a gem York turned out to be.  It's a charming place, full of interesting historical architecture, fascinating museums, lovely places to eat and dozens of superb pubs.

The journey up on Friday evening was a treat for starters.  The train's an express, so it only took two hours.  Also we were sat with a gaggle of Yorkshire ladies d'un certain age who were very friendly and good value.  They did the usual Ls d'un C-A thing and cracked open a bottle of prosecco as soon as the train left Kings Cross.

We also happened across a couple of young Dublin students who were travelling from Dublin to Edinburgh via London and Newcastle.  There were taking part in a charity event.  Several teams of two had to undertake this journey with absolutely no money whatsoever.  It was also a race, so no chance to rest whatever.  They'd been on the go since 9am that morning.  This was at about 8pm.  We helped them out with some food and a few quid for their collection.  So, all in all, it was a very diverting journey.

We arrived in York at 9.30 and checked in.  Then out for a couple of sharpeners in a craft ale pub at the train station.  Normally, you'd need your bumps felt for drinking in a pub at a train station.  They're generally foul - anonymous, violent and poorly maintained, like Guantanamo Bay with pool tables.  But the one at York station is lovely.  The beer is great and the staff friendly.  This is fitting addendum to the station itself, which is a gorgeous high-Victorian palace to the age of steam.

Saturday was spent at the National Railway Museum, which wasn't the cavalcade of sweaty confirmed bachelors I'd feared.  It was actually a very well kept and presented collection of important engines and carriages from the around the world that illustrate the history and innovations in rail technology.  Even as I type those words, I can feel you slipping away.  I'd had thought the same in your position, but, believe me, it's a great museum.  Everyone uses trains to some extent.  Their history is our history.  It is therefore of interest to most of us.

As Saturday night!  Well, what can I say?  It's absolutely packed with charming, cosy hostelries, York - absolutely packed.  We wandered around, tasting the wares, and finished the night in a lovely curry house.

Sunday morning we charged around the city walls for an hour before heading off home at noon.  A tremendous place - we'll be back.

Man up Friday

The back's a soupçon better today, which is just as well because I was in danger of getting downhearted by it all.  Well, I mean to say, it's day two ferrchrissakes.  The best years of my life are being eaten up by this boring condition.

Still, onwards and upwards.  It's off to Kings Cross straight from the office this evening for the two-hour journey to York.  I've procured a massive picnic to see us right en route.  Better that than worrying about being stranded by "a jumper" outside Hitchin.  That's happened before.  And when it does, market forces turn all the travellers against one another.  

Last time it happened, some old hands dashed-off and emptied the buffet car of booze before the engine had even struck the poor unfortunate in question.  The tell-tale urgent braking was enough to alert them to the imminent impact.  It was ten minutes before I realised something was seriously "up".  I trotted off to the buffet car for a soothing 12 cans of bitter, but the cupboard was bare.  A very dark and introspective two hours followed, which I'm sure would have been grist to the mill for Arthur Miller, but which for me was nothing more than a prolonged opportunity to confront my sober unconscious mind.  I did not like what I saw that night, friends.  No, I did not.

Anyway, no danger of that tonight.  We've half a case of Tattinger each if needs must.