Destination: York

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, and alleys run helter-skelter off of the main roads. Crowds wander about the shop windows. Finally, the small streets lead to the Minster, the largest Gothic cathedral in England, or some such. Everything in this town seems to have an informational plaque attached to it, declaring it as a superlative structure or landmark, remarkable and specific to northern England. Stepping into the Minster, it’s obvious that such descriptors are well-deserved – this town has been a vibrant center since the foundation stone was laid, and even before then, as a warren of Roman city streets lies feet under the current metropolis.

Greenery lines the center of the city itself: the Treasurer’s House and Gardens, the Museum Gardens with flowers and ruins of Norman cathedrals. Walkways run along the river. Everything is old; just choose which layer of history you'd like to investigate: Roman, Viking, Norman.... Just to walk through a gate, crumbling yet still upright, is to take a step back in time.

To walk out of the city takes you along the River Ouse, where rowing sculls splash sleekly through the water and flowers and nettles grow in profusion along the banks and walkways. On the far side off the water, the train thunders away to the north and south.