York and a pub crawl 6

During the night the smile froze to my face.  The newly installed boiler which I was told would keep my room snugly warm was clearly not doing what it said on the tin.  I lay there with the thin duvet pulled up under my chin trying to stop my teeth from chattering.  I lay there for a very long time wondering about the first signs of hypothermia (slurred speech and trouble keeping your balance) and decided that I might just confuse them with the after effects of a good night out on the town and decided to play safe. I dragged myself out of bed with a huffy sigh and began to load all my clothes on top of the duvet in an effort to create more layers and a touch more warmth.  As I did so I sent up a small prayer to St Vivian, the patron saint of hangovers  - O merciful St. Vivian, I ask that you relieve my nausea, soothe my aching head and calm my upset stomach. I also ask that you protect me from any loud noises or bright lights and provide me with the sense to avoid further episodes of excessive imbibing. Amen.  I woke up to a bright and sunny morning feeling remarkably fresh and listened as the bells in the Minster chimed 9 o’clock. St Vivian, I decided, was a bit of a star. I dressed, avoided looking at myself too closely in the bathroom mirror and headed down to breakfast putting my slight lack of balance and moderately slurred speech down to the mild hypothermia that I obviously hadn’t  caught quite in time. But I knew a good breakfast would set me up for my journey home and St Vivian appeared to have been remarkably accommodating to my late night appeal for clemency. Breakfast, however, had finished.  I got a similar response to my request for a table for breakfast at half past nine as I had got when I had asked for a table for one in the restaurant the evening before. Breakfast was finished I was told, as it was half past nine (what hotel ever finishes breakfast at half past nine on a SUNDAY?). Isn’t the whole point about being away at a hotel (and the Coach House does advertise itself as a hotel) for the weekend that on a Sunday morning you should be able to come down clutching the papers at any time between 8am and midday and still get a freshly prepared plate of bacon, egg,  fried bread etc?  A good and hearty Sunday morning breakfast served at a hospitable time is a prerequisite before sticking your head out of the door to see if the world is still in the same state you left it the night before. And with the sense of liquor still swilling about inside me I knew I had to have something before St Vivian’s intervention started to wear off.  Ordering tea and toast (they’d run to that) I wandered over to the sideboard and helped myself to the remaining egg and bacon which showed signs of having been hanging around under the gantry lights for quite a long time.  A young waiter, obviously picking up on the distress in my eyes and the dejected stoop of my shoulder came over and apologised.  But still they couldn’t run to providing anything fresh other than tea and toast. I sat and ate until the liquor stopped slushing around in my stomach and I could focus on people without having to really concentrate and then I went upstairs to pack my bag.

York and a pub crawl 5

And get better it did.  My first port of call was a mere 1 minute stroll down Marygate to the Bay Horse where I was meeting my chums Rich and Mick. The Bay Horse is recently re-opened after being closed for nearly 5 years and from the outside it has some interesting and classic architectural features.  The beer – I chose Greene King IPA as a steady starter at 3.6% ABV – was well kept and helped to set the scene for some interesting discussions over the course of the evening.  But the inside of the pub?  Well it was another case of noddy land design with clashing colours and toy town furniture.  Now call me strange, but I just don’t get why so many pubs with historical merits and the ability to keep some good beer then decorate the place like it’s the local hangout for Postman Pat.  A real ale pub should be classically styled and easy on the eye.  It calls for natural materials like wood and stone not synthetic velour in a variety of primary colours.  But the upside was that the Bay Horse was quiet and that had some merit so we supped our pints and chatted about this and that (mainly how York City had done that afternoon).  Then we gathered our coats and wits and turning right out of the entrance headed down towards the river walk, past the museum gardens and into town.  It was a lovely evening, the fierce wind of the morning and afternoon had dropped, autumn leaves gently spiralled to the ground and it was very pleasant to be walking with two such interesting companions.  We arrived at the Three Legged Mare on High Petergate and wandered into a more successful example of a modern real ale pub.  Wood floor boards and a light airy interior attracted a pleasant and happy crowd of early evening drinkers who didn’t seem to be at all put off by the fact they were drinking in a pub with a hanging scaffold in the back garden.  This contraption from which the pub takes its name could hang three men at once which was considered an innovative move at the time. Me, I was happy to observe it from a distance and learn that the pub is also affectionately known locally as the Wonkey Donkey.  It has a signature beer of the same name and which is one of nine on tap at any one time.  The TLM is owned by the York Brewery which also produces Centurion Ghost Ale, Yorkshire Terrier and Guzzler and I decided there and then that at some point in the evening, being on their home turf, I would have to try all three. Draining our beer and now into the swing of things we headed off to the Guy Fawkes Hotel further down High Petergate.  I started to feel like I was slipping back in time as we entered into a dark and atmospheric front bar with seating that looked like it had been borrowed from the local chapel.  Though the front bar is very small, the pub opens out at the back into a much larger and airier room which again leads off as far as I can tell (it was just a quick glance)  into a conservatory.  The Guy Fawkes is also a hotel (and actual birthplace in 1570 of Guy Fawkes. “He’s not a traitor, he’s a very naughty boy”.  Opps, sorry, wrong film) and is now, I understand, in Administration.  But it served a good pint of Copper Dragon from the Skipton Brewery and at 3.9% I was still retaining, at least at this point, a moderately clear head though I see now as I go through my notes that my handwriting was definitely starting to suffer. I downed a pint of Leeds Brewery Best which at 4.3% started to get a bit more serious and then we were out once again into the cool night air ready to continue our adventure.   The Hansom Cab on Spurriergate has one thing going for it only – the price of the beer.  At £1.50 for a pint of Sam Smiths it’s worth a mention but one piece of advice girls – don’t visit the loos. In fact, the Hansom Cab was once known as the Burns Hotel and used to have a very different character (thanks Rich for this bit of info).  In parts it is a Grade II listed building of 17^th century origin.  But as you stand there and cast your eye around, you’d never really know it.  So on we went, the evening was passing and we had one or two other pubs of note to visit before the bus came like the pumpkin carriage in Cinderella and carried off my two fellow-real ale enthusiasts into the night.  The Blue Bell, on Fossgate is exactly the kind of characterful pub that CAMRA was set up to preserve.  There has been a pub on the site since 1798 (thanks again, Rich) and the current interior dates back to the Edwardian era of the early 1900s (for those whose English history is a bit shakey, Queen Victoria died in 1901 and Edward VII succeeded and ruled until 1910).  It is not a pub for those that like to draw their finger across the windowsill to see if there is any dust. The inside of the Blue Bell is very small indeed.  The upside of this is that it saves it from large groups or parties so it manages to retain the sense of a ‘local’ pub.  It transports you back to the days when going out to have a beer was really an excuse for a good chat with your mates or anyone else that looked likely rather than as it seems today, just to go out to get blathered.  The bar breaks the space into two and the back bar or smoke room - though of course you are no longer allowed to smoke in it - is where we settled ourselves. Service is through a glazed hatch and the smoke room is also where the beers are listed on a small blackboard.  This is a truly traditional English pub which is serious about its beers and which due to its size gets very busy but still manages to retain an efficient and friendly service.  It was my favourite of the whole night. But the evening drew to a close and what a lovely time I had had doing two of my favourite things – 1. wandering around a beautiful and historical city on a pub crawl and 2. having the company of interesting, funny and knowledgeable companions, namely Rich and Mick.  I hit the sack back in my room with a very big smile on my face.

York and a pub crawl 4

The Dean Court Hotel in York has a location no more than a stone's throw away from one of the most beautiful cathedrals in Europe and is in itself a period building.  Whoever was commissioned to undertake their recent interior design project therefore, should be shot.  It is a travesty of modern refurbishment over ambience, taste and style.   Let me not dwell on it because I feel my blood rising at the thought that somebody has been let loose on such an important landmark in York with only the most rudimentary sense of style and elegance and the B&Q version of interior design as their template.  Just to say I was mightily relieved not to have been relieved of so much money and I was doubly pleased with my little find at the Coach House.  That was until I got back there for dinner.   When you travel alone, as I do much of the time, you get used to the blank stare and the furrowed brow that accompanies your request for a ‘table for one’.   And that is what met me when I arrived back at the Coach House ready to eat a horse and speculating about the menu sufficiently deeply enough to get my stomach grumbling with the prospect of a fine meal ahead of me.    Now, I had not raised my expectations too far – this was a pub after all – but it advertised its Carriages Restaurant independent of the pub/hotel and had a Head Chef who they cited on their business card so I expected some moderately good things.  Coming back down from my room however, I was shown to a table squeezed right up into a corner.  It’s position made me wonder if they’d just whipped a vase of flowers off it and were giving it to the poor sap (tee hee) who was eating alone (tee hee hee) on a Saturday night (tee hee hee hee).  But I settled in, ordered a pint of the local real ale to get my evening started and then perused the menu. Being as hungry as a horse (as mentioned previously) and having moved on from fantasies of eating a horse to something more socially acceptable (in this country at least) I ordered haddock and chips with mushy peas as the best possible lining for a stomach ahead of an extended (I hoped) pub crawl around the town. Having placed my order and no sooner having settled down to read my paper and enjoy my beer, my food arrived. In fact, it probably arrived in the space of time it’s taken me to write the last three sentences.  Now as we all know, sometimes food arrives too quickly and this was one of those times.  I eyed it with suspicion.  Then I poked it a bit and then I took a bite and it was clear, very clear that for whatever reason I had before me a re-heated haddock and chips.  It looked reheated, it smelt reheated and it tasted reheated.  Now, I was in a quandary.  In thirty minutes I was meeting the boys, I needed to eat and I needed to conduct at least some basic ablutions and definitely put some more lipstick on.  I could send my food back and take the risk that with the restaurant filling up it would take much longer to arrive leaving me in the kind of rush that results in a skirt tucked into your knickers or lipstick smeared all over your teeth. So, weighing up the options and with a disheartened sigh I started to pick my way through it. Now, let me ask you a question.  Say you owned a restaurant and you employed people in that restaurant as waiters and waitresses and as part of their ‘training’ you told them to ask the customers if the food was all right. Now, hypothetically speaking, if they said yes then as a waitress or waiter you would smile, say you were pleased they were enjoying it and then go onto the next one. What if they said no?  What if the customer said as I did “actually it’s average.  Very average.  It tastes like it has been reheated.”  As a waiter or waitress what might you do then?  Perhaps ask them if they would like something else or tell them you would get the restaurant manager/ess to speak to them or even offer to reduce the price or take the meal off the bill?  Any of these things would be better than I got which was a mumbled “oh, really” and then a waitress who avoided me like the plague until it was clear that I wasn’t going to eat any more.  And even then she sent her mate to clear the plate.  Musing on the useless customer service that the UK generally makes its own (why do people go and work in the catering industry who clearly don't like having to deal with customers?  Why employ a Head Chef who will send out food that is so clearly of poor quality? Why, as an employer employ either?), I folded my paper, pushed back my chair and made for the stairs.  And just as I get there, with a virtual rugby tackle, the plate-clearing waitress comes bowling over to me and tells me to pay for my meal. They wouldn't put it on my bill (did they think I was going to do a runner in my socks?).  So, I go up to my room on the second floor, get my purse and come all the way back down again and settle for my meal as I was intending to do when I paid my bill the next morning anyway. I left for my evening out with the boys with overwhelming perceptions of poor food and extremely poor customer service.  My evening, I decided, could only get better.             

York and a pub crawl 3

Evensong at York Minster is a delight and with the exception of Sunday it takes place every day at 5.15pm.  The moderate congregation that gathers is guided through The Crossing and under the 15th century Quire Screen.  The screen is one of the most striking parts of the cathedral and it is hard as you file through not to be aware of the watchful and imperious stares of the eight early Kings of England which are carved into it.  Seated in amongst the choir in The Quire (I think it’s pronounced choir too) there is time before the service begins to settle down and let your eyes drift over the ornate wood carvings of the pews and up to the beautiful simplicity of the cream and gold ceiling a long way above you. Having a choir to sing Evensong with you surely helps it a long and there is another upside – it meant I could sing away to my hearts content without having other members of the congregation looking round to see if someone had stood on a cat.  If you are in York early evening I would recommend getting yourself along to the Minster and for the 40 or so minutes of piety and atonement you get to wander around FOC for about 45 minutes afterwards. That trade-off certainly gets my vote. Having had my spiritual fill more practical needs took over and I suddenly realised I was very hungry indeed. My plan was to have something suitably hearty to set me up for the evening ahead. I had taken a few moments now and then during my stroll back from the Jorvik Viking Museum on Coppergate to stop and look at a menu or two but nothing was really engaging me and so I decided I would go back to the Coach House and eat in the restaurant there.  But before that I wanted to wander over to the £210/night Dean Court Hotel and see what I was missing.  The Dean Court Hotel does have a very fine location – right on the Minster plaza and a step away from the Shambles and other tourist attractions.  It has a fine and imposing Victorian red brick exterior and over the course of 140 years has been transformed from three separate dwellings into one 4* hotel.  The inside, though, is a tragedy.

York and a pub crawl 2

Forty minutes later I was back outside my hotel.  Not you understand because my business for the afternoon was concluded in truly efficient style or because I’d decided that the Minster was nothing but a big church anyway and I might as well come back and read the paper.  No, not at all.  I was back at my hotel because in following my nose I had got hopelessly lost in an area of back-to-back houses and skulking cats that made me feel like I had dropped into the opening scene of Coronation Street. Every time I attempted to rectify my directional errors I was stymied by either 1. York City Football Club ground or 2. the railway track.  Not having a ticket to one and not wearing the right shoes to attempt to breach the other I decided that as much as it might pain me, my only option was to try and find my way back to the hotel and start again.  Which I did.  And on turning right this time, out of Marygate and onto Bootham heading in the opposite direction to before, within five minutes or so I found myself in the shadow of the mighty York Minster. Oh how I let out a merry chortle as I beat myself around the head for such earlier stupidity.  But this was quickly forgotten as I found myself gazing at York Minster which is truly spectacular and is one of Europe’s greatest gothic cathedrals.  Sitting in a plaza with gardens beyond, the Minster we see today has evolved over fourteen hundred years and survived in one guise or another through the invasion of the Romans, Vikings and Normans.  It’s strange to think of real life toga parties being held in the Roman Basilica beneath the Minster and Centurions wandering around scratching their heads and wondering where they’d last parked their chariot.  The Vikings followed the Romans, the Normans followed the Vikings and generally the Saxons didn’t get a look in.  The cathedral as we know it was mostly completed in about 1100 but since then bits have fallen down, bits have gone up in flames and over the millennia other bits got added.  For the full details go to www.yorkminster.org.  I didn’t want to go into the Minster because I would have to pay and if I went to Evensong later I could get in for free instead.  I clearly have some Yorkshire roots.  Instead I wanted to revisit the Jorvik Viking Museum and if I had time go to the National Railway Museum for which York is rightly famous.  I had about two and a half hours to fit this in before I came back at 5.15pm.