North by north east

Today is my first back at work after a 4-day break in North Yorkshire.  It's the first time I've ventured so far into the county; we went right up into the North York Moors National Park.  And as always with Yerk-shuh, it was even better than I'd dared to hope it would be.  The scenery, people, historic sights, food and drink were all exemplary.  I could happily spend my dotage in Yorkshire I think, and I speak as a dyed-in-the-wool smut-faced cockney urchin.

The great thing too about Yorkshire is its sheer size.  It's England's largest county, and by a mile.  And within its generous boarders, there is a wealth of variety.  Cityscape, countryside, peaks, valleys, coast, moorland - if you want it, Yorkshire has it.  Finally, it's a place that esteems tea and real ale above all other libations.  This just about pops the tin hat on it for me.  It's my kind of place.

There was a fair bit of drama, along with the gentle walks to and from pubs while we were there.  Driving back to York to deposit the hire car yesterday, we witnessed a Land Rover and trailer of cattle overturn on the A64.  It's very hilly around that part of the country.  I didn't see what caused the spillage, but I did see it happen.  Two cows went scudding across the carriageway at a fair old rate of knots.  Luckily, the other road-users were alert to the danger, and none of the bovines was hit.  In fact, they didn't seem hurt at all.  A motorist who stopped obviously knew his cow onions and corralled them into a neighbouring field for safe-keeping.  The driver of the Land Rover also appeared unhurt.  He scrambled out of the passenger door of the vehicle, which was now moonlighting as the roof.  I read later on the local newspaper's web site that indeed none of the participants in the prang was hurt.  Phew.  Moo.

So that's Yorkshire for you.  It's like Las Vegas, but with flailing, confused livestock instead of topless dancers.  LV's loss.

Dancing in the street

Summer's arrived!  Well, it is June.  Finally, but finally the sun is generating some heat.  Today it's 27 degrees in the capital, and you can smell the optimism in the streets.  Everyone has a spring in his or her step, and feels emboldened.  "Work can fcuk itself for a few days" seems to be the prevailing philosophy.

This does have a dark side though.  The English are wont to drink like teenagers in a suburban bus shelter when the sun is high, wide and handsome like this.  Then they get dizzy and aggressive.  Not nice.  Luckily, the missus and I are off to the north this evening, where it's cooler, both meteologically and figuratively.  There'll be no crapulent sunstroke in Yorkshire tonight, thank Christ.

As per I've spent a king's ransom on nibbles for the journey, and I'm not done yet, by God.  The plan is to get some refreshing white wine at Euston, so it's nice and cold for the start of the journey.

Hurrah for the summer.  Hurrah for the north.  And hurrah for a couple of cheeky days off.

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.