After a shortish drive (given the kids in the car), we arrive in York. Harry only asks whether or not we are there, yet, one-hundred-and-forty-two times. Rosie simply looks, smiles and sleeps, until Harry decides to roar unexpectedly. Painted faces on trees dot the winding road, much to Harry's delight, whilst I try to recover from the roar.
York is a striking little town. It wears its age well, like a dignified farmer, weathered, but upright and strong. Full of thick-walled stone buildings, it’s imposing in a way few modest places are. The solidity of the stone buildings; the post office, the court-house; they have settled into their landscape; their rusted-red hues like fences that have been bore-water bronzed. It’s a proud sort of place, but earth-salt steady, with steady-paced lives.
Our cottage is tiny, and reassuringly warm. Walls as thick as a loaf of bread from end to end. Bumpy-smooth walls, simple wooden doors, and sloping floors. Not unlike a smaller ancestor of our own, cosy home.
With a sprawling garden built for exploring, we each don coat and beanie and do just that. Native plants, hard peas of orange gravel, soft undergrowth and dampness. There’s a wooden pirate ship that Harry climbs with delight; but it has a pirate flag, so Rosie recoils in fright. She likes the swing, though. So placid and accepting compared to her million-mile-an-hour brother. She’s the clouds in a blue sky; he’s summer scorch and winter storm.
At night it’s cold and clear, and once the kids settle to sleep, Brooke and I gather outside, to sit knee-close to the fire that roars in the ancient, cast-iron box that contains and magnifies its fierce warmth. We sit and drink beers and wine, and talk about our day, our lives, our children.
The kids sleep until 8:30am. Must be something intoxicating in this country air.
A Saturday park market is sparsely attended; pot-plants and bric-a-brac the main items on offer. Coats and hats are worn, but it’s still bitingly cold. Bone-grabbing. Old people walk old dogs. They stop and talk; the people and the dogs. Mostly, they talk about the age of the dogs – eleven seems to be the average. The dogs stand and snuffle softly, in their little knitted coats.
Over in the town-hall, the market is packed and warm. Harry gets a large glass amber-coloured jewel (his diamond), a hand-cranked kitchen mixer and some ‘hot-wheels’ cars. Rosie gets annoyed when her boot comes off.
People sit and drink coffee on the main street. Lots of grey hair. Locals and Nomads re-fuelling in the clear, cold light. Cars drive slowly down the solitary main street.
Surprisingly young people working in the local shops. Polite and efficient, they seem compellingly wistful. Great pocket money, being made on school holidays? A tough trade-off for a kid. Other kids wander the street, looking for more to do than simply wandering around, looking for something to do.
Great little bookshop. I buy books. (More than I should.) How to resist The Diary of a Country Parson in such a setting?
More eats, explores, giggles, games and a few tantrums. It's all over, almost as soon as it began. But it's been a lovely couple of days.
Cheers, York. We'll be back.
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