Monday, August 19

The train journey from Edinburgh to York took about three hours. The train was crowded and noisy, and we barely found room for our luggage in the inadequate storage area. Even on this fourth leg of our train travel Art was impatient with the inconveniences. Once on this day I thought briefly that we might have been better off to drive. Then I remembered our days on the road in southern England and decided I’d rather be hot and crowded than negotiating those narrow roads in the van – or riding, terrified, in the passenger seat.

The York train station was smaller than Edinburgh but, for its size, more crowded. Unlike Edinburgh, where we seemed to be the only confused passengers, in York everyone looked lost. They milled around in clumps, like cattle, moving only gradually toward the exit and the queue of waiting taxis. Art, purposefully advancing toward the door of the terminal, was blocked repeatedly. Finally, his patience at an end and his agitation level high, he mooed loudly. “If they want to act like cattle, I’ll treat them like cattle.” Usually when Art makes his cow noise – the first time I ever heard it was coming out of a Kenny G concert at the Gorge, in central Washington – I laugh. But here in York, England, I was mortified. I hoped no one would beat us with a cane or an umbrella. I was relieved when we reached the head of the taxi line and the driver removed us from the scene at the station.

It was just a little over a mile from the station to the B&B. Art hadn’t yet stopped ranting about the train station, and his topics of aggravation had expanded to include UK train travel everywhere and the inconveniences and annoyances of travel in general. His final topic was the frustration of staying only two nights in one place before moving on. “Just when we get comfortable, we leave.” I agreed to a minimum of three nights per destination in future trip planning. I would have promised just about anything at this point; Art had been patient during my frustrating Edinburgh days, but the crowded train to York had ended his run of good moods.

We’d selected Airden House for our York B&B because of Rick Steves’ attractive description: “…the most central of … listings, has eight spacious rooms, a grandfather clock-cozy TV lounge, and brightness and warmth throughout.” The tall, narrowish, neat house welcomed us from the front.

The inkeeper led us to our fourth-floor room. Now, I had practice with multiple stairways in Penrith at the George Hotel, but this place was something else. The Airden House stairwells were narrow – three feet wide maximum on the lower floors, and less than that as we ascended. Plus, the stair rises deepened as we climbed. It was a struggle to maneuver our luggage up the last flight of stairs.

I remember thinking, as I read Rick Steves’ descriptions of the B&Bs we selected, that it would be quaint and interesting to have a room at the top of a narrow stairway. I’ve changed my mind. If anything, the experience reinforces the importance of good planning. Once you leave the room and descend the stairs it is a major effort to come back up for a forgotten camera or hat.

We unpacked. The laundry needed doing. Art was still muttering about various dissatisfactions as we bagged up the dirty clothes. I suggested we call a taxi for a ride to the laundromat. He said, “You call if you want to. I’m walking.” So we trudged two miles to the laundromat, taking one wrong turn and having to ask for directions. Fortunately, the two-mile walk eased Art’s mood somewhat.

We spent two hours in the laundromat. I remember years ago, before I had a washer and dryer, I used to bring a book to pass the time. Now, sitting in a rickety plastic chair, I thought of numerous other things we could be doing in York right now instead of watching our underwear and shirts tumbling in the machines. The chatty manager diverted my attention with her descriptions of the economic downturn in the area that had resulted in her having to sell a flower shop she’d owned for 20 years and spend her time in this laundromat instead.

The only other person in the place was a round-faced 20-something man wearing military fatigues. He was cheerful and talkative, expounding on his adventures since enlisting in the military. At least I think that’s what he was talking about, based on the very few words I understood of what he said. The fellow talked nearly nonstop for the 15 minutes it took him to load his clothes into the washers. I listened with growing dismay as I realized I didn’t recognize the language he was speaking, though it had all the cadences of English, which language I have spoken myself for over 50 years. I wondered if my brain had suffered some kind of trauma in the heat and exertion of the previous few days, so that now I didn’t understand the speech of others. Art was smiling and nodding to the man.

Here’s Art’s take on the conversation:

He was a kid in the military who had spent some time in one of the Arabian countries, perhaps Iraq in the previous war, and a lot of his references were military and contained a lot of abbreviations and acronyms. I could make out what he was saying. One of his big references was to the eating habits in the Arabian countries, as to which hand to eat with. “Make sure it’s not the hand you wipe your backside with.”

Finally the young fellow left. I said to the proprietor, “I hardly understood a word he said. I must be really tired.” She responded, “Me, either. I have no idea where he picked up that accent, because I know he’s from around here.” I laughed with relief that my brain was still operating properly.

Back at the B&B, we rested. Art dropped off to sleep within a minute, as he usually does. I lay quietly, aware of an increasing uneasiness in my intestinal tract. I realized I’d picked up a bug of some kind. Just as the herpes on my lip was subsiding, I had a new physical distraction. We would be sightseeing for two days in York, walking everywhere, with four flights of stairs between the street and the bathroom.

Our evening activity was a walking tour of old York with a local volunteer guide. We joined a dozen or so other tourists at the meeting point. The guide was a balding older man with a big smile and large yellowing teeth; he had a prodigious knowledge of the gossipy history of the old city. We strolled for a couple of hours in a light drizzle as he chatted amiably.

One particularly interesting story concerned the reason why the York Cathedral had survived the German bombings in World War II. Apparently the cathedral spire was a landmark for the German Luftwaft. When they could see it below, they knew it was time to turn left to head into London. I was skeptical of the truth of this story, but when we returned home I talked to my former father-in-law, who served in World War II as a bombardier. He confirmed that the story of the York Cathedral’s spire was true.

Art was particularly interested in the wall built around the old city and then fortified by multiple successive conquerors. We knew we’d be seeing more of the city wall the next day on our planned volkssmarch.

At the close of the evening walk, we made our way to the restaurant the guide had recommended for a good meal. Gert and Harry’s Restaurant was a dark little place, atmospheric, and we had a decent roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. One of the better meals we’ve had on this trip.

Tuesday, August 20

This was our big walking day in York. Breakfast at Airden House was like the English breakfasts we’d had in Ireland – very filling. Different from the ones we’d had in Scotland, which had had different types of meat and breads. They only had instant coffee, so we had tea instead. I will say here that these words are Art’s. All I recall was that we ate breakfast. He remembers the details.

We had planned to do the York volkssmarch before we left Seattle. I’d contacted a local volunteer to ask whether we could get an international credit for the walk, as we are active in volkssmarches at home. He wrote back, saying that he and his wife would meet us in York at the conclusion of our walk to sign our books. I thought that was very friendly of him. Having made the connection with a Yorkshireman about this walk, I felt duty bound to take it – in spite of my intestinal condition.

The 6.2-mile walk in York included the city wall as well as many streets within the old city. Old York has narrow and crooked cobblestone streets, so it was easy to get lost. Fortunately, the old city is only about a mile across, so getting found again was not a problem. Crammed into the ancient stone structures were contemporary shops, some touristy and others the basics of a town – multiple banks, restaurants, chemists and clothing stores. In the old city center on this day, the public market was crowded. Here Art and I lost our bearings on our volkssmarch route. We stepped up a curb to review the walking directions.

Our discussion was interrupted. “Are you lost?” We looked up to a 60ish man, nattily dressed with smiling bright eyes . We explained what we were doing; that we knew where we were, actually, but it didn’t count unless we knew where we were on the walking course. “You’re Americans, aren’t you?” His accent was from somewhere in the United Kingdom but not readily identifiable to us. “Tell me,” he continued, “If you were betting people, would you put money now in your stock market?” I said that we had been watching the American financial system carefully for the last couple of years, that we invested some money each month, but that “we’re careful.” The man replied, “No doubt in my mind that your market will rally and move forward again. You Yanks are an enterprising people, entrepreneurs. You always have been. The market will come back.”

As we left the market square, I commented to Art that it seemed unusual that a stranger would initiate such a conversational topic. Looking back on it, though, I now think differently. The man clearly admired the American pioneering spirit – even envied it, perhaps. It was one of those times on this trip when we felt pretty good to be Americans in the United Kingdom.

We stopped for lunch in a tiny, crowded shop. I found a phone and called the volkssmarching Yorkshireman. He told us that he and his wife would “run up to York” and stamp our books. I asked him how far that would be. He said 80 km (about 48 miles). Art and I planned to take in the Evensong service at the cathedral, and we knew we wouldn’t have long to linger with the couple, so we begged off the meeting. I just couldn’t see asking them to drive that far for the half hour we’d have available. The fellow asked for our address in the States and said he’d mail a participation card to us. Sure enough, we’d been home for about a week when we got mail from York, England, with our cards inside.

We found our way again. In the course of this 6.2-mile course, we walked the entire circumference of the York city wall. Built as part of the city’s defense, and fortified further in a number of centuries, the wall was at least six feet thick. Its height varied, though. In some places we walked on top and I got to experience my usual wariness of heights as I looked over the edge, unprotected by railings, at the ground 15 feet below. In other sections of the wall, the distance to the ground was only six feet or so. I understand that, in these sections, bodies had been thrown over the wall during battle or times of disease and covered with earth piled up against the wall. What looked like a gentle slope up to the wall was actually a mass grave.

By the time we finished our volkssmarch my feet hurt. I’m accustomed to walking on sidewalks, but 6.2 miles on cobblestones was hard duty on my feet. Plus, I’d made the mistake of wearing nylon shorts, and the inside of my legs were chafed. Added to my intestinal issues, by the time we headed back to the B&B for a break, I was just about among the walking wounded.

I suspect that the contemporary city of York rings the old city center and that there are more modern shopping areas and neighborhoods. Because we’d made the decision to tour the York described by Rick Steves, we missed those parts. It would be like getting a hotel in downtown Seattle, seeing the sights of that area only, and missing the Cascades, Puget Sound and the Olympic Peninsula. We’d only think we’d seen the Pacific Northwest. The rest of York, and Yorkshire, will have to wait for another trip.

Evensong at York Cathedral was one of my “musts”. After the disappointment in Wells, I was glad to have another chance to hear the music. We headed over early to be sure to be in time. But alas, there was no evensong service. It was on the schedule, but no choir had shown up. Apparently we were not supposed to experience an English evensong service.