Easter mini-Interrail return, day two: York
So good they named it once.
I woke up refreshed this morning, after a comfortable sleep followed by a few alarm-snoozes in the morning, and decided I would set off in search of a decent breakfast.
By "decent" – and as a recent convert – I thought I'd revisit the giddying excitement that was Greggs in Glasgow, but it was quite a long walk to the nearest Greggs, an effort which I abandoned after some minor exertion as I found myself on the terrace of a toll house on Lendal Bridge, eating a tasty but slightly leathery pain aux raisins and drinking a cup of coffee while on the table next to me the self-appointed main protagonist was like, literally, over-using like, like, literally irregardless. She was like literally chilled about what someone had literally said to her like the night before. I fantasised briefly about literally fashioning a weapon from a half-eaten pastry and a copy of yesterday's i, but in the end I was like drinking my coffee in literal sufferance and occupied myself with reserving a place for the National Rail Museum. Literally.
The National Rail Museum opened in 1975 in the former York North locomotive depot and has grown to house over 6,000 choochoo-related objects, of which around 100 or so are actual trains or bits of trains. Most of the patrons seemed to be children of all ages, either dragging around one parent or being dragged around by one parent, accompanied by another parent struggling to contain their indifference.
While I proclaim in fervent self-denial to not be of the anorak and clipboard persuasion, I did do a little inward squee of excitement when I entered the great hall and found myself face-to-face with the mother of all steam locomotives.
Although The Flying Scotsman was not present for my visit as it is a working train, there is a large exhibit celebrating its 100th birthday. This comprises a virtual reality tour, and a walk-around tour in the north hall where it's possible to look inside a Pullman coach and marvel at how the quality of on-board catering has been enshittified over the last one hundred years; examples range from a full silver service place setting with liqueur glasses and wine glasses to an empty Ploughman's lunch sandwich wrapper. In the north hall is also a vast collection of little train-related bits and pieces – station signs, models, maquettes, silverware – and there's also a balcony overlooking the railway station where the people with selfie-sticks had congregated.
Of particular interest in the collection, just because of its unique nature of being the only non UK-related exhibit, was the pointy end (technical term) of an original 0 Series Shinkansen, the Japanese bullet-train, donated to the museum by the West Japan Railway Company in 2001. It's the first coach, containing the driver's cab and a passenger compartment in which it's possible to sit and enjoy presentations about the history of the bullet train. I distracted someone who was enjoying presentations about the history of the bullet train by complimenting them on their Mondaine Hilfiker homage and they didn't immediately call security, so that was a success. New friends!
One thing I was not prepared for was the sheer scale of a train. Trains look quite, well, train-sized when they pull up next to you at a station and a good part of them is missing, obscured by the platforms, but when you're standing next to one at wheel level, they are a lot bigger than you expect. Some of the older steam locomotives, especially the Chinese Government Railways one which wouldn't look out of place in a nineties rave video, are absolutely massive beasts.
Two hours or so mooching around the museum seemed to be my limit and I decided that next on my list of things to do was visit the Minster, a plan foiled quickly by the presence of a seemingly unending stream of scouts filing into it for a special service. Some were banging drums, perhaps in celebration of Samuel Morse, perhaps in celebration of Saint George, but the result was that their siege meant that the Minster was closed to tourists today. A nice member of the cathedral's own constabulary told me that it's open again for tourism at 9.30 am on Mondays, but that I was welcome to come back for Choral Evensong.
This left me with a couple of hours to skulk around the Shambles market looking at all sorts of mouth-watering street food choices which made me regret having earlier paid eight pounds for a sandwich and a bottle of fizzy water in an overly hip sandwich bar near Bootham Bar. Not sated by that, even if it was a sandwich of a falafely nature, I found an egg sandwich reduced to 59p in Tesco which is where I think I should've started in the first place.
Top travel tip for next time: feeling poor? Go to the nearest supermarket and scour the going-off section or, as I call it, The Fridge of Dreams.
I devoured my spoils under a tree on a little square, filtering out the slightly yikes "street theatre" that wasn't anywhere near as entertaining as last night's chip shop performance, and studiously ignoring the advances of overly flirty pigeons who had somehow been alerted to my presence.
In Waterstones, I repulsed a woman by asking for something that could be the result of Michael Portillo and Bill Bryson having a love-child, a request that briefly made her look physically ill, before leaving with something I'll never actually read on a train because I'm forever falling asleep or licking the window.
The south door of the Minster opened at 3.30pm for people to attend Choral Evensong at 4pm, and not for tourists to take photos – not that this didn't stop them from trying. Those who did get in were locked in, and somehow needed reminding that photography was not permitted despite standing next to a notice indicating that photography was not permitted. These days I am mostly touched by Noodly Appendages but nonetheless do enjoy a good choral service as it's generally a great way to get a cracking free performance out of professional musicians. Tonight's Evensong – Stanford in A, something Wesley, Langlais – did not disappoint.
The last time I willingly went to an evening service with organ music was years ago at the Oude Kerke in Amsterdam after some Queen-or-King's Day excesses where – woefully afflicted by earlier consumption of finest local produce – I struggled not to giggle throughout amused by my own belief that ecclesiastical Dutch sounds a little like Pam Ayres having a stroke, all the while making a mental list of essential tasty snacks to have afterwards.
This evening was a much more dignified performance on my behalf, and as it was in celebration of the Eve of Saint George there were wholesome smells and bells, a thurifer with a good swing on him, and much gratuitous organ-throbbing to add to the excitement. The service was streamed, a first for me as I don't think I have ever attended a live-streamed church service before.
Feeling suitably pious afterwards, I set off in search of liquid refreshment and was just thinking about sticking myself into The Fat Badger when I was saved by a local couple – genuinely named Will and Grace – who marched me to The Blue Bell, York's smallest pub, where I saved a fortune on Staropramen. Sunday is also free cheese and biscuits day – why wouldn't it be? – something His Noodliness must certainly have approved of. I grazed. Free biscuits! And cheese. And piccalilli.
Further tourism plans were swiftly abandoned, but I did manage to walk a little of the city walls until about 9pm when a man in a high-vis jacket told me he was locking up but who allowed me to walk with him towards Victoria Bar, where he recommended a final pint in The Golden Ball, York’s first community co-operative pub.
In 2010, the pub was grade II listed and appears on Camra's National Inventory of Historic Pub Interiors, but in 2012 was facing closure. This is when the local community stepped in and took it over in order to save it and keep it open. It's now thriving and hosts beer festivals and music nights and sells art from local artists. I had a pint of Aspall's cyder, which was very nice, and then wandered back to my new chip-shop of choice for a much more civilised chips and curry sauce than last night. This was a bit stupid of me really, because earlier in the day I'd spotted a purveyor of falafely goodness in the actual station, but had forgotten about it. Next time.
My room-mates have all left, so I have the not-Beeton suite to myself.
