London to York, Day 2: Roche Abbey (sort of), the elusive Church and the Buzzard Sisters

The plan was to hit Conisborough Castle and Roche Abbey, plus both of the nearby churches near each property, before sliding into York to check into Lady Anne Middleton's Hotel, our haunt from last year.

It was probably an overly ambitious itinerary to begin with, but a calendar-challenged reservation clerk somewhere in the bowels of EuropCar's bureaucracy spiked it months earlier beyond any hope. It was obvious that were we going to orphan something. Which, we actually figured, was not a huge deal, since both properties were kind of on the way to Nottingham and we figured we'd just hit them on day 5 when we headed south again.

England was back to being small again.

So, we just cruised up the A1. I was a Highway Star.

We didn't really check to see what time Roche Abbey closed, but it seemed like the best bet for a damaged-agenda hail Mary. We exited the highway at a place called Blyth, caught an unsurprisingly narrow country road and exited it toward the Abbey (getting severely honked at in the process), then eased our way down an impossibly steep, cobblestone lane into a lush valley.

There were a few nature-walkers about - but the Abbey itself was closed, or just about to be closed. The gatehouse was accessible though, and there was a lengthy pathway outside the fenced Abbey property which afforded a decent view of the abbey ruins, so we got a few pictures anyway.

Roche Abbey Gatehouse

Roche Abbey ruins

Roche Abbey - from inside the gatehouse

We made a mental note to come back. (We didn't.)

Sharon had marked the church in Maltby, which was the closest town to the Abbey, but time was running short and after a half-hearted attempt to find the place (which, as it turns out, really isn't that easy to get to anyway, as we will see in a later chapter), we got back on the A1 and blasted toward York.

We entered the city from the south, through the excruciatingly narrow Mickelgate Bar. The used to hang the severed heads of traitors from this structure.

We got to the hotel, checked in and dropped the bags off. We remembered the Surly Desk Clerk from last year.

The smoking garden awaited - I brought out a cider.

At the next table were a couple of heavy set, sixtyish woman, sitting across from each other. They greeted us with an unmistakably American "Hi!", and we got to talking. They were sisters - one from Seattle, the other from Alaska - who were at the leading edge of a ten week vacation that was to take them across northern England, Scotland, Italy, Spain and finally on a boat to Florida. Our two week trip up and down the east of England seemed puny by comparison.

The larger and younger of the two asked, "How are you getting around?" Uh, driving.

"Oh my, I be too terrified to drive over here." Hmmm.

We finished up and headed into town for dinner at Thomas's [sic], our favorite pub from last year.

By the end of the next day, we were referring to them as the Buzzard Sisters.

York Pt 2 - The City

We descended the stairs from the Minster Tower, which was frankly only a little easier than going up, re-entered the Minster itself for a longer look around. 

There’s a visceral sense of the place’s history, though for me it lingered just over our heads, out of reach and buoyantly unsullied by the mass of tourists around us. One cannot escape imagining being in the place alone, at night, the dense stone walls shutting off the sounds of the modern city humming around it. An experience, I suspect, very few people get to have.

The exit takes you through the tourist shop, we clutched our wallets tightly, and made out way back into the city. At the suggestion of the gentleman we met at the top of the Minster, we headed off next to The Shambles, the ancient market street in York.

Essentially a walking thoroughfare, the place dates to pre-Norman times, although the street now is mainly lined with buildings from the 14^th through 18^th century, and typical of York, it’s a weird blending of the ancient, the trying-to-look-ancient and the modern. Cell phone stores next to rustic old pubs, next to trendy fashion nooks, next to cautiously signed fast food stops. It was loaded up with tourists – they were the ones walking at a leisurely pace – and Sharon popped in York Glass to pick out a lucky glass cat. The cat is an ancient totem for York; it is thought that cat statues were commonly placed around the city as a means to ward off plague-carrying rats, as well as evil spirits. We saw a number of cat statues during our walk around the town, as well as plenty of real ones, most looking well-fed and thoroughly incapable of catching a rat. 

We also saw a poster bill for an upcoming concert...

Rock on, Dave.

We stopped to rest after the Shambles on the wall outside the ancient St Crux parish church, 

across the street from the Golden Fleece public house. The Fleece is reputedly one the most haunted locations in all of England, let alone York, and we considered spending our hotel time in York at the place. But there was no parking (that again…) and while the Tudor-era building looked awesomely creepy (and structurally dubious), we made the right choice. We’ll stop in for a pint next time we’re in town, but staying there looks like a serious and noisy PITA. 

We headed down Pavement St for a few blocks, figured out that we were lost, and eventually after rotating our city map a dozen or so times and looking generally clueless at an intersection (I was just happy to see a traffic light), we re-found the city wall and following it southwest to York City Cemetery. I was in some discomfort that day: a pulled and irritated abdominal muscle on my left side, and of course I’d get this on our longest walking day. It was mostly just an inconvenience for me, having to sit and take some load off at regular intervals, but I will say it bothered me enough to make the second half of the York explore-day a bit of a trial.  

York Cemetery immediately recalled Brompton, urban Amazonia run wild. 

The place was founded in the late 1830’s; like most English cities at the beginning of the Industrial Revolution, the city churches could no longer accommodate the growing numbers of dead, and DIY burials were making a gruesome mess of the city centers, especially during floods (get the picture?). It was originally set up as a investment deal for a number of the area’s wealthy, but the problem, of course, is that when you run out of room (and that sort of thing happens in England, on a lot of different levels), you can’t bury anyone in the place anymore, revenues and ROI fall, and the place turns into a neglected money-loser. Which is exactly what happened to the York Cemetery by the 1960’s – the place had become so derelict and vandalized, it was taken over by the Crown, and is now maintained by a public trust. It is still used for burials, although  lightly from what we could tell. The heart of the place – narrow and overgrown passages bounded by large sections of mature trees, deep weeds and grasses - was ferociously atmospheric and evocative, one of the best cemeteries we found in England.

Back into the city center, we visited Clifford’s Tower, one of York’s main tourist attractions and another Heritage Site. 

The tower as it exists today was built by Henry III in the middle of the 13^th century, surrounded by a moat and was considered one of northern England’s most important fortifications. The thing stands on a small but very steep hill – called a “motte” – which was first constructed by William the Conqueror in 1068. The stairs up were packed with school kids, goofing around and waiting for instruction from their harried field trip leader – I was worried we’d have to share our visit with all 50 of them, but they took off as we ascended the stairs to get inside.

There isn’t much left of the keep itself, just a large, vaguely circular area with a few chained-off staircases and some windows. The tourist shop, oddly, is placed right in the middle of the structure, but there were some stairs to climb and a second level above the floor, offering a nice view of the city. The place was small but a cool experience and undoubtedly a must for York visitors.

Late afternoon by this time, and we wandered over to St Mary’s Abbey, the skeletal remains of a Benedictine mission founded in the 11^th century and dedicated to St Olaf II of Norway. A good deal less of the historic structure remains than most of the other abbeys we saw. Like virtually all of the Norman-era abbeys, St Mary’s was closed and substantially demolished by Henry VIII in the 1530’s as part of the Dissolution Of The Monasteries – it doesn't take long exploring historic religious sites in England to appreciate the magnitude and viciousness of Henry’s rage against the Roman Catholic establishment – but surrounded by immaculate gardens, peaceful walking paths and museums, the site is one of York’s true treasures. A large stage was being set up for something or other within the loose embrace of the abbey’s nave, scaffolding and lights and generators, but whatever it was we weren’t going to be around long enough to see it.

We followed the wall along the north for a while longer, as it ran behind shops and B&B’s, the Minster’s Tower never out of sight, and we ambled back into town, satisfied we had walked more or less the whole thing. The tourist book said it takes only an hour and a half to walk the entire length of the wall, but even having done it in segments, I’m skeptical.

We headed over to Thomas’s for dinner and libations. 

Mary, the thirty-something proprietor of only six months or so, came over to our table and chatted us up casually, asking about our day and what was on the itinerary for us. We mentioned Shrewsbury, and after poking some fun at my pronunciation (I guess it sounded like ‘Shroos Berry’ to her; proper English would be more like ‘Shrews Bree’ ), she told us it was actually her home town (“why would you want to go there”, she asked, to which we replied…well, it’s a long story). She spent her college years in Wales (another recommendation to go to Wales), and she complained with some faux-bitterness that her sister still lived in Wales and had adopted something of a Welsh accent, which Mary found irritating and entirely unacceptable. She tried to illustrate the difference between an English and a Welsh accent, but I really couldn't hear it, and certainly didn't apprehend the cause of her distress over it. There’s a thing between the English and the Welsh which undoubtedly extends back many centuries, and I suspect that sheep have something to do with it. We’ll leave it at that.

A club sandwich for me (with deviled ham?), and bangers and mash for Sharon, 

a few rounds of drinks at the bar (Mary proving herself a skilled and somewhat dangerous barkeep), and promising we’d return, we headed out into the night, the city now quiet except for a few groups of swoozled and boisterous college kids out barhopping.

Over the river and back on Skeldergate, we popped in at a tiny pub, the Cock and Bottle, a couple of blocks up from the hotel. No tourists here, just a handful of locals drinking at the bar and pitching a game of darts. A girl with spiky blue hair and matching darts-tournament shirt seemed to be winning. We were hopelessly out of place, but no one paid a second glance at us, we finished up and went back to the Lady Anne.

Helluva day.  

As a side note, York endured some pretty bad flooding a mere three weeks after we were there, and the good folks at the Cock and Bottle persevered in true British fashion (i.e., keep drinking !) 

York Minster

Rested up after a long day of travel, we set off again by foot into York for dinner – the town was still busy with traffic and tourists, as well as outflow from the many pubs, and we landed at Thomas’s for a bite. It was probably the first time we really felt comfortable at a table in England. The place had a locals-but-tourists-ok vibe to it, a couple of video game tables and some music in the various rooms that comprised the restaurant. A nice meal, some good chatter with our waitress and up to bar for a few drinks. We really liked the place and decided we’d come back the next night.

Back at the hotel, we went out to the smoking area for a nightcap and chatted with a group of middle aged guys from Cardiff up for a week of golf in the area. Volleyed a bit back and forth on traveling England, the necessity for us to visit Wales (“maybe next time” I offered, which may have sounded dismissive, although we really would like to visit Wales sometime) and field a remark or two about  “your Mr. Romney”, to which I replied “the guy’s been insulting our intelligence a lot longer than he’s been insulting yours…”, and we went off to get some shuteye.  

Wednesday came, our Day Without Driving, and I was personally grateful for it. I got up early enough to pop in at the hotel's fitness center – I had made it a preference, in picking out hotels, that we found ones with gyms, although this turned out to be the only one I managed to visit while on the road. The place was light and a little small, a tall blond girl with freakishly developed biceps made me sign a form (I didn’t have my glasses with me, so for all I know I deeded my kidneys over to her) and I did an hour of rowing machine and treadmill, the latter a little weird since it prompted me for my weight in kilograms and preferred distance in kilometers, and I just had to guess.

We headed into town on foot. It was a workday, so the narrow streets were bustling with trucks and cabs, and the sidewalks were full. York has a certain kind of buzz to it, sort of like a big city squeezed down and tamed by old passages, modernity grudgingly yielding way to the ancient.

There was a guy hawking a lame joke book for a charitable donation to some athletic program – we gave him a few pounds and he tried his best American accent on us. Also lame, heavy on the Texas, but probably no worse than my own lame English accent I rolled out from time to time, and the guy was funny and friendly. We also met an American busker, a twenty-something kid who looked like he needed some sleep, setting up for a morning of guitar-case gigging – he was from California and playing in a four piece band called the Buffalo Skinners, bouncing around the country and, in some cases, sleeping on the streets. York was a temporary stop for him, but he said it was one of his favorite places in England. He gave us a CD (“I’m the only American in the group!”) and we parted ways.

Along the way to the Minster, the girl with the biceps walked past me and popped into a bank. Small town, I thought.  

The Minster.

Jawdropping in scale and majestically poised in the middle of the city center, the place defied description. While it is still used periodically for special ecclesiastical purposes, the soaring 12^th century cathedral (it’s technically neither a cathedral, nor a true “minster”, as few locals pointed out to us) is really more of a museum. Walls lined with 15^th and 16^th century memorials, plenty of graves in the floor, huge doors, staggering stone carvings, a few sarcophagi dating to the 12^th (!) century, workmen and tourists and a light sprinkling of smiling, welcoming clergy.

After a quick lap through the immense ground floor, we gathered for the tower climb. The signs warned that the experience was only for those physically fit and undisturbed by narrow stairways, and they weren’t kidding. The climb, 275 steps up two ancient and impossibly narrow spiral staircases, was taxing. I was sweating when we reached the top – Sharon had to stop a number of times to get her breath. The view from the top, 360 degrees over York and toward the Yorkshire countryside extended almost as far as Leeds, thirty miles to the west. A local gentleman pointed the Kilburn Chalk Horse almost 30 miles to the North, remarking how clear the air was that day to be able to see it, which I only managed with the telephoto on Sharon’s camera. The shot's below, the horse is against the hillside above the orange bus to the left of center of the picture, but don't feel bad if you can't see it. I was there, and I couldn't see it.  

  

We've got more pictures of the Minster on the Cemetery Gallery site.