Bloggo Trentesimo: York, la terza e ultima parte: The rest of Saturday and finally Sunday in York

After my return from Durham to York I did very little for the rest of the day, besides writing and preparing photos for the blog – could have published it by now, but of course I have no access to internet. I went out for an aimless walk, first to the old center, decorated for Christmas,

York lights up for Christmas

then to the street called The Shambles, the oldest street in town, where in the middle ages butchers plied their trade; 

The Shambles

finally in search of dinner. I walked for too long a time and looked at too many places. Finally decided on the Pizza Express, nicely situated on the river, but once in found it so hot and uncomfortable that I left immediately. After a bit more searching and encountering the rowdy youth of York, most of them smashed, I decided that I wasn’t all that hungry and stopped at the Sainsbury’s where I bought a mixed salad, a fruit salad, a mini-bottle of wine, some cheese and bread, and swinger that I am (Sinatra put it well in a song called “Saturday Night is the Loneliest Night of the Week” except that I never remember a Saturday night "when my sweetie and I used to dance cheek to cheek") had dinner in my room, listening to good jazz. It was the healthiest meal I have had on the trip! I even avoided the slight urge to get myself downstairs to the bar and have a pint as a nightcap. It had been a long day and I had a good night’s sleep.

Saturday had been a beautiful day. Sunday was not. I was the first one down to breakfast, again, had another feast, went back up to the room to write for a bit, then headed out into a drizzle unlike that encountered in the U.S. It seems almost nothing, the drops are like micro-drops compared to the average U.S. drops of drizzle (how’s this for a scientific explanation?) and yet it soaks. 

The River Ouse, with rowers

I walked along the river for a while, then headed back into town, where I was lucky enough to catch the beginning of the Remembrance Day Parade; 

Remembrance Day Parade

York’s veterans taking part in a march through some of the nicest sections of town. Then at 11 am, while I was haggling with a guy in the open air market about the price of Harris Tweed jackets, a moment of silence from the entire city. They take 11 November very seriously here. England was hit very hard, literally as well as figuratively, by both world wars and has lost many young people since in more recent wars in which they allied themselves with us.

Then I wandered, shopping for a bit but resisting the urge to buy. I was not hungry enough for lunch so I decided, drizzle or not, to attack the rest of the town’s medieval walls. While I did not quite finish them completely I had a good walk, and many others seemed to be doing the same. It really wasn’t all that bad in the mist and drizzle, and once again I got my exercise for the day. 

Walking the city walls on a drizzly, misty day

I had some cheese and bread left over from Saturday night (that loneliest night of the week), so returned to the hotel and finished it, wrote a bit, bought a few gifties for the staff at the London Center, then headed back to The Three-Legged Mare. I won’t repeat that story, for you should remember it from my fast-forward in the blog on Durham – one word should suffice – Micklegate!

Oh! But I DO have one story to tell about the Three-Legged Mare. I was about halfway through my Micklegate, when I saw a guy outside wearing very interesting bright multicolored pants (obviously a musician) wheeling a piano down the street (definitely a musician), and stopping in front of the bar. He brought a chair in, went back outside, got someone on the street’s attention, the two of them lifted the piano and he rolled it to the back of the pub. This was not an electric piano, granted also not a baby grand, but an old stand-up – a substantial instrument not usually known for portability. When he emerged from the back of the pub he smiled at me, I smiled at him, and he left. And absolutely no one else thought a thing of it, or at least no one seemed to, as none of them even looked up!

Were they ALL drinking Micklegate? Or was it my own private fantasy? Elwood P Dowd is friends with Harvey, a Puka (for those of you who don’t know the play, Harvey is the title character, a six foot tall white rabbit, and no one can see him but Elwood), so I could well have just experienced my own private version of Harvey. After all, I’ve played Elwood, very well I might add, and if I do say it myself -- after all, who will if I don't? Who knows? Maybe the musician could be named Harvey! Probably he’s playing there tonight – at least I’d HOPE that’s the reason. I’m thinking of heading back there after dinner, but I worry that I might find him there, playing the hell out of the piano, and that I am the only one who even notices.

I am now back in my room, having finished my tea and cake, and awaiting my 5:30 pm dinner reservation. Thirty-two minutes to go, but who besides me is counting?

Back for my last post (unless something eventful happens, which is highly doubtful). I had a delicious pork roast with gravy, dressing mashed potatoes, vegetables, washed down by an ale – too stuffed for dessert. Had a walk after dinner, yes, to the Three-Legged Mare! 

The Three-Legged Mare and the Minster

And sure enough, when I approached, the sound of piano music filled the air – but not in the pub! I peeked in, saw only a few people sitting around drinking, and walked on, towards the music. 

The piano man at the Minster

It was THE piano all right, but sitting at it was a much older man, playing sweet music, medleys of old tunes, not brilliantly but well enough, outside, just in front of the Minster. The man with the brightly colored pants was not a musician after all, but a techie; the pub the temporary storage place for the piano, delivered about 100 yards away, for the Three-Legged Mare is but a stone’s throw from the great Minster. An old man, playing in the dark for as far as I could see, no one but me. I tipped him, he thanked me, I thanked him, and on that lovely note, I strolled back to the hotel.

There I did some more work, tried to find something interesting to watch on television, which, because of Remembrance Day was featuring old war films (The Great Escape, for example – a great movie, but how many times now have I seen it?), finally found a news show, then decided to head downstairs for one last pint and crisps. To my great surprise the joint was jumpin’ at 8 pm of a Sunday evening. I sat at the bar and chatted with the rather cool young woman who had checked me in on Friday – a horsewoman, used to teach riding.

As we were talking two women some years older than I headed to the bar for a last drink. I had chatted with them briefly earlier in the weekend, at dinner on Friday night. At that time I felt a bit like I was in a version of Terence Rattigan’s Separate Tables, as they were at one, I nearby at another, and a third couple, completely silent, were at a third, along with at least fifteen empty tables. A quiet night at the inn. The two of them giggled when I ordered a large glass of wine and we joked briefly about how I’d never get up for breakfast after that one, but I noticed they were putting it away as well. I couldn’t tell how much older than I they were, but they were talking about dating young boys in the war, so they could have been in their early eighties. To continue my theattical analogy, they might have been Aunt Abby and Aunt Martha in Arsenic and Old Lace. They were feisty.

I’ve frequently noticed on my travels two older English women traveling together – widows perhaps – or Gertrude Stein along with Alice B? – ready to charge forward every morning – tough old birds. We started chatting at the bar again last night, as I noticed one of them had ordered a lemonade. I thought, “How quaint,” but then I heard her companion, who was doing the ordering, ask what kind of whiskey she wanted in it – lemonade laced with Famous Grouse!

We jabbered about this, that and the other – they’d been friends for fifty-one years, one from the north of England, another from the south, and occasionally they would meet in the middle for a reunion. And then I said good night, secretly wishing it was the attractive young equestrienne to whom I was bidding adieu. I did wave good-night to her from a distance, but as I was climbing the stairs I realized that I may have blown it! The two older women were ripe for my fantasy plan – marry an old British woman and become a permanent resident! I’d missed my chance! Particularly when the one who'd ordered the "lemonade" said to me, "I never see the need for ice in a drink, just waters it down." An old woman after my own heart! 

And on that only slightly rueful and more than a little tongue-in-cheek note, I end my notes on my topsy-turvy weekend in York and Durham.