28 September | York

Just got back from a long weekend in York. And yes, it was long. We left Friday morning at 9 am and took a train (which we almost missed. Roscoe had the tickets and there was apparently some snafu—tickets were in another bag, so he had to run back to his flat. But he got there in time, breathless, and we all made it onto the train).

York is a medieval walled city, complete with a huge Minster (cathedral), tiny cobblestone streets, restaurants that have been in business for 400 years, lots of shops, and TONS of tourists. The food and wine festival was going on while we were there, which added to the crowds in the streets. It was beautiful and interesting, but it seemed like the main thing to do, after visiting the sights, was shop. It is very obvious that this is a town that has survived for centuries but now relies on tourism for preservation. Not without good reason—there are some beautiful ruins, two good museums, the Minster . . . an abundance of history. But I felt like I spent many hours just idly wandering in circles in the city center, and I didn’t ever get a sense of York’s presence. I felt listless there—too much sightseeing, not enough sense of what life is actually like for people that live in York.

As much as the sights were interesting, I really enjoyed my time outside of the walled city the best. We stayed at a great hostel (a glass of wine at the hostel bar was less than £3. sold.) about a mile outside the city center along the River Ouse. There were two ways into town from the hostel: along the streets or along a river path. The hostel seemed to be on the outskirts of town—nothing but farmland past us. But the river path continued out into the farmland, so on Saturday morning I got up around 7 and went for a run. The path ran along the river for a while, and then turned off into meadowland and cow pastures. The sun hadn’t yet hit the fields, and there was mist rising from the ground. The air was pretty chilly, but the sight of the misty moors, the hedgerows dividing the pastures, and the green fields still blooming with wildflowers were worth dragging myself out of bed so early.

The path crossed a few open fields and then turned across the river, and I found myself face to face with several cows grazing right next to the path. There was no fence or wall to separate us—I could have petted them if I wanted to. I had to gingerly step around two that were standing directly on the path. I grew up in cow country, but there had always been a fence protecting me from possible stampedes. It was a little unsettling now to be out there in the middle of Yorkshire in running shorts, alone with all these cows. But I also was so impressed—there was no need to keep them fenced in, or (more importantly) to keep people out. I am not sure of the actual laws, but I know that in England it is legal to hike across private property, which I think is just great. The land was beautiful, and something that I never could have witnessed back home—farmlands where I grew up were often fenced in with “Keep Out” signs posted on the property lines. The trail in Yorkshire followed the Ouse through beautiful land, private or not, so that everyone could enjoy it.