Much of what I know of York I've gleaned from the song about the Grand Old Duke: that is to say, I know almost nothing. It seems a first stop in the North of England. I fall asleep on the train despite my best efforts, and wake to the rolling of the English countryside: more sheep; fewer hills; accents on the train that are distinctly not Scottish. Leaving the train on an overcast late-morning, I climb first up, onto the high city walls, carrying my bulging backpack. No one seems to notice. Trees – trees! – drape themselves over the edge of the walls, the worn stones creased and smoothed by centuries of feet. The walls narrow as they cross bars, the tall towers that connect the sections of the walls to each other. Crossing over the river, I leave the wall and plunge down into the city itself. The streets are delightfully narrow, the castle leading up to the Shambles market, which hums with people. Timbered buildings lean precariously outward over the cobbled streets, a...
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