We woke up this morning in a state of happy excitement because of the holiday.
It wasn’t even flattened by a phone call from a man from the council wanting to know why the garage had marked N/a on the bit of the taxi test which asks if your taxi looks like a taxi. Taxis can fail their MOT for all sorts of things that don’t apply to everything else on the road, like whether or not it is clean or has a scrape on the bumper. We have long ago worked out which garages have a decently flexible definition of this sort of thing, and use those: and this one seemed to have excelled himself in his admirable indifference to squeaks from the council licensing authority.
I was loftily middle-class at the man from the council, and after a while he decided that he would ask the garage, which suited me, and we parted amicably, him to pester the garage to make my life more difficult in future, and me to get ready for our York Experience.
We managed to set off unexpectedly early, and unceremoniously dumped the dogs with Mark’s sister, who had kindly agreed to put up with them even though they fight dreadfully and to the death with her dogs every time they set eyes on one another. We felt a bit guilty about this, but not very.
We had a lovely journey along the slow road over the fells, since we weren’t rushing to collect children. We went through Hawes and Wenslydale and Aysgarth, across windswept landscapes and bleak fellsides and were very glad that we never chose to settle in a remote country farmhouse in the Yorkshire Dales.
There were floods all over the place, every hollow in every field seemed to be full of water, the Lake District seems to have expanded to cover most of the North of the country.
We had a brilliantly Old Person moment and stopped at an interesting looking garden centre on the way, pleased with the knowledge that we had reached that stage of life where stopping at a garden centre is not any longer an incomprehensible and unspeakably boring act.
We didn’t actually think very much of the garden centre in the end, as I am something of a perfectionist where seeds and bulbs are concerned and thought that their range of varieties was inadequate for a discerning allotment holder, so we moved on, but it was satisfying to have had a nicely Elderly Couple moment to start the holiday.
York is brilliant, everything a medieval walled settlement ought to be, crammed with interesting and expensive shops in quaintly timber framed buildings. We bought some Hotel Chocolats and looked at some jackets for Mark and stared at the glorious Minster, although not for very long because as the afternoon drew to a close the clouds parted and the day became icily chilled.
We retired to a cheerful timber framed pub then, which was not at all twee inside, and had some jovial Yorkshire ladies serving behind the bar. We ate enormous quantities of splendid chicken in some unidentifiable rich sauce, and drank huge glasses of red wine, and rolled merrily back to the hotel in the dark.
We settled ourselves contentedly in the very beautiful lounge. The Royal York is an imposing sort of place, right next to the station, breathing elderly grandeur and Edwardian dignity. Inside it is peacefully decorated in shades of creamy white and dove grey, elegant and comfortable. Our room is right up at the top, the roof slopes a bit and there are armchairs and a fireplace, it is very lovely.
We had cocktails in the lounge. We sampled each other’s discreetly once the waitress had gone, although obviously we were trying to pretend that we drink cocktails all the time and know exactly what to expect that they will taste like. Mine was a gorgeously sour affair with champagne and cucumber and lemon, and Mark’s was bitter chocolate and orange, it is wonderful being sophisticated, we will have to do it again.
We read our books and interrupted each other with remarks about our reading, and talked, and enjoyed the beautiful room, with soft velvety grey armchairs and smooth tables, and the enormous imposing staircase and the chandeliers, and then after a while we realised we were collapsing with tiredness and ordered a hot chocolate. They came laced with Baileys and a collapsing mass of thick whipped cream, and bitter chocolate sprinkled on the top, and we drank them and staggered exhaustedly off to bed.
When we got upstairs we realised that it was only half past eight.
We sat on the bed for a short while thoughtfully eating Hotel Chocolats and being happy to be on holiday, and I wrote to you.
We are probably ready for bed anyway.
