Beyond 'Ecky thump' (and that might have not even have been from Yorkshire), we didn't really know much about York. But the Lonely Planet guide raved about how lovely the city is, and we'd heard similar comments from people who have been there. It's only 2.5 hours from Edinburgh, so a few weeks ago we woke up early and hopped on the 8am train from Waverley station. There was a very loud hen party across the aisle from us, which generously shared their awful taste in music with everyone in the carriage.
We had looked for accommodation on the internet the few weeks before hand, but had no luck aside from the very high-end hotels, so we decided to turn up at the tourist info bureau at the train station and find a room through there. However, they told us that the perfect storm of an English long weekend, school holidays and a Roman Festival meant that there were very, very few empty rooms in the city. We watched while the tourist lady made phone calls to various hotels with no luck. Finally she managed to locate a room in a B&B about one mile from the city centre, which was a relief. She told us it was the 'last available room in York', which may have been an exaggeration, but we weren't arguing.
First stop was the B&B to drop off our bags, but on the way we had a treat. As previewed on the train from Edinburgh, York seemed to be hen and stag party capital that weekend, and ahead of us on the footpath were several men wearing only mankinis:
Under the ruse of taking photos of the nearby city walls, I managed to capture for posterity (for some reason). Click on the photo above for a larger image, if you dare... During the whole weekend we encountered many other stag and hen parties. Noice.The B&B we were staying in was about three terrace houses knocked together, and our room had a four poster bed.
The room was stuffed full of odd bits of furniture, mismatched bedclothes, about a million pillows, while several other rooms that we walked past were overloaded with ornaments, knick-knacks, stuffed toys and dolls. It was a bit like AD's house, so we felt right at home.
Next stop was York Minster, which is touted as the best gothic cathedral in the UK. It lived up to the hype and more, and we were relatively happy enough to part with the hefty entrance fee. The undercroft had a tour of the foundations of the cathedral which was a great display of the 2000 year history of the site. It had orginally been a Roman garrison, which was demolished and a wooden church built on the site around 1000 AD. This was also razed and a stone cathedral built on top, which was later knocked down and the current York Minster built in its place.
The cathedral truly is amazing, with fancy ceilings:
Statues of lounging bishops:
The world's largest stained glass window, which is the size of a tennis court (this is actually a life-size print hanging in front of the window, which is currently being restored):
Impressive columns and perspectives:
Grotesque gargoyles by the hundred (this guy has his fingers jammed into his eyelid and mouth):
We made the trek up to the top of the tower, which is 275 steps up a very narrow and winding stair case. 275 steps doesn't sound that much when you're on the ground floor, but at about step 123 you rethink this assessment. But the views were spectacular, even if we were all fenced in to prevent people from jumping from the roof. This is the view halfway up (or down) the cathedral:
Outside the Minster we were lucky enough to spot an "authentic" "Roman" "parade", complete with Celtic prisoners:
After the Minster, we headed off to the one place in York we couldn't miss - Betty's Tearooms. There was a queue outside with about a 30 minute wait and it was a bit pricey, but gosh it was worth it. We ordered the Yorkshire tea, consisting of two fruit scones, Yorkshire cream and strawberry jam, but didn't expect it to arrive in such style:
It was just so posh and elegant and typically British. I've never felt more like a character from an Enid Blyton novel, even though there weren't any servings of tongue. The queues outside suddenly became more understandable. It's no surprise that at random times over the past few weeks, one of us will say "Mmmm, remember the food at Betty's..?" and we'll both start to drool.
After cramming in the 1 million calories of afternoon tea, some gentle exercise was in order. The original Norman (or Roman? can't remember) city walls still surround the old city, although some sections have been demolished. Nevertheless, it is still possible to walk about 3.5 miles on the walls themselves, which is pretty flash.
Taking a break halfway through the walk:
G climbing the stairs at one point:
Roman ruins partway along the wall:
The next morning, the B&B hostess was a bit miffed when we turned down the full English Breakfast (bacon, sausages, fried eggs, tomato, mushrooms and hash browns) in favour of cereal and toast. We certainly didn't need to add a further 1 million calories to our bodies after the outing to Betty's the day before. Avoiding the glare of the hostess, we checked out of the hotel and left our luggage at the train station (for a pretty steep £10 per bag) and walked back into the old town to the Jorvik Centre. York was the site of a Viking settlement about 1,000 years ago, and the Centre, which is right in the middle of the old town, shows archaeological finds from digging that has gone on since about 1975. There's a ride that takes visitors through a reconstruction of the viking settlement, complete with authentic odour (it would not have been a pleasant place to live, if the smell was anything to go by). One of the models depicted a man, with a particularly contorted facial expression, sitting on a Viking lavatory. We thought this rather odd, as it's not usually something that is shown at ye olde reconstructions. However, as we entered section with display cabinets and posters providing further information about the Vikings, the reason for the straining man became apparent: there were four separate references to the euphemistically-named 'Jorvik stool', which was dug up by some lucky archaeologist. The Centre seemed inordinately proud of this relic from a by-gone era, but I'm not sure how many of the visitors shared the joy.
Following that close encounter, we nipped over to the Shambles, which is the oldest part of the old town. The streets are very narrow and winding, and have many touristy shops. We of course succumbed to the tourist-aimed chocolate shop and had one sweet each, paid for by the £1 coin found on the footpath that morning. Hooray for observation! We came across a market, but it was just like the kind of market you could find anywhere so we didn't linger. Soon it was time for G to depart for a tour of York's oldest, traditional brewery and for me to look for some shoes as mine were becoming increasingly less comfortable.
G reported that his tour was good, but as he was the only person on the tour it was a bit strange. Wanting to interact with the guide, he responded to some of the things he was saying and asked questions, but it quickly became clear that the guide wasn't happy departing from his prepared spiel. But the free pint of beer that was thrown in with the tour price seemed to do the trick and make things better.
We met up again for lunch, and then wandered down to the river to hop onto a cruise boat. The weather was the best we've seen it in the UK - sunny, warm, blue sky, with little chance of rain. The boat was busy, but we managed to snag seats on the top deck. The trip was around an hour, and motored downstream into the countryside. The boat passed the residence of the Archbishop of York:
and the Terry's chocolate orange factory....mmmmm...:
The highlight of the boat trip, however, was undoubtedly passing two young men on the river bank, one of whom had obviously just been for a dip in the water. As our boat passed, the swimmer stripped off entirely, bringing the total of naked bums seen in York to three. It caused quite a stir among the boat passengers and more than one person quickly took photos, though I'm not entirely sure why.
Making the most of the sunshine, we had a bit of a lie down in the botanic gardens until our train was due to depart. Not surprisingly, the gardens were packed with people with the same idea. (And to show that we have completely forgotten all of the slip-slop-slap advice that was drummed into every Queenslander from a young age, the next day we were both sunburnt. Although to be fair, no one expects to get sunburn in England.)
A few more random photos...
Ye olde house (note the period Pizza Hut next door):
Think this is Clifford Tower? There were lots of aggressive geese on the grass outside:
