On my first trip to the UK in 2011, I hired a car and spent two weeks wending my way, nervously, around narrow roads and laneways designed originally for horses and carts. I decided this time not to put myself through that stress, and so took advantage of a British Rail offer: 8 days of travel within a month for under $500, which I thought, after checking prices for individual trips, sounded good, though the offer is only for we people living outside the country, which seems awfully unfair on the locals.
I’m sitting in front of my computer, asking myself what could be the worst thing to happen to a travel blogger. For me, it’s the loss of photos. And that’s what’s happened.
The temperature was heading for zero (well, 10°), the wind was blasting and it was threatening to rain. But, intrepid traveller that I am, I headed back into the city. It’s years since I’ve been to Captain Cook’s cottage, settled in the gorgeous Fitzroy Gardens, stretching behind the State Parliament buildings.
I’d often been told I should go to York and so, in England’s autumn of 2011, I boarded a train at Manchester and headed north.
York has had many incarnations since the Romans left in A.D.400: Anglo Saxon, Viking, Norman, led by William the Conquerer, and the Tudors. Wars have come and gone, and bust times and booms. In the 1970s and 80s, industrial unrest and strikes swept the country and manufacturing went into decline. It was then that York realised its greatest asset was its history and the tourism it could bring.