A Tale Of Two Cities?

Our hero is bemused - as usual.

I turned the key in the lock and walked out to the car across the half inch of snow that was being slowly added to by the minute, the bags heavy in my hand as I opened the boot and placed them, my camera bag and a couple of other things we'd decided to take on this short break, carefully inside. We always have a holiday around my birthday and this year's no exception, although we'd decided to stay in the UK to save money for later in the year, something I was regretting momentarily as snowflakes managed to get down the neck of my shirt as I got into the drivers seat. It struck me that somewhere warm and sunny right now would be a nice relief from the cold and damp of a Scottish winter. Technically it's not winter any more of course, but no-one's taken time to let the weather know and it's been dourly consistent in its approach to the passing days. This holiday would take us to England, staying a few days with a friend and an overnight somewhere on the way back at the end of the week.

Ok - maybe not quite half an inch. Sue me.

The snow on the road at the end of the drive was red slush, stained the colour of the local soil from the fields around the village, but had all but disappeared as we joined the main road a few moments later and headed south on the twenty minute drive to Berwick Upon Tweed to catch the train due in half an hour. I flicked the wipers on as dirt spray spattered from cars in front and decided that lights wouldn't be a bad idea either on a day so grey and flat and with the world in monochrome beyond the window.

The day was dull and grey and monochrome.

A lot to say in English.

In Scots we'd just say 'dreich'. Everyone would understand.

A few minutes later than the scheduled time we pulled out of the station comfortably sat at a table to ourselves. G was texting ahead to let our pal Indigo Roth know that we were on our way while I  was busy setting up my laptop for the journey- a couple of hours then a switch to take us another couple of hours down towards Cambridge before finally changing to a local service to get to our friends home town. Part of my birthday pampering was this part of journey in first class, with its extra leg room, better seats and a never ending supply of complimentary tea, coffee, drinks and various other goodies. I was pleased, but we'd be coming home standard class as we'd decided to break the journey into two smaller portions with an overnight stay in York, - one of  'our places'- making first class an unreasonable cost.

 G is a seasoned rail traveller from her time working in Edinburgh but it's not something I've done a lot of over the years, my preference almost always being to drive. A rail journey then, is special to me and I'm always reminded of my first train trip as a small boy - a visit with my Grandmother to her twin sister who lived at the other end of the world. Or that's how it seemed to me at the time. Being such an unusual and evocative means of transport to me,  trains are therefore special and I always get a frisson of excitement as a journey starts. In some ways it's part of the reason I'd rather be an infrequent passenger. I like to keep it special. I'd hate to lose the feeling.

As we stepped off the train a few hours later the figure of our chum was easily identifiable. It's not easy to miss the afghan-lean six foot five figure of Mr Roth and today was no exception as from the other end of the platform he raised his walking cane and waved a cheery greeting some distance over the heads of our fellow travellers. While we walked towards each other he doffed his gleaming bowler hat and beamed a smile, his dark locks shining in the late afternoon sun. He'd dressed for the occasion in an impressive Victorian style frock coat,  with dark, muted stripe trousers over gleaming shoes and spats. From beneath his coat the edge of a crimson waistcoat caught the eye and led the glance past an immaculately starched ivory shirt and a Jacobs-coat-of-many-colours cravat at his throat to our monocled friends face. By the time he'd reached us he'd removed one of his pale calfskin gloves and proffered a hand the size of a small country to G, who was delighted when he bowed and kissed the back of her hand before scooping her into a hug and lifting her several feet off the ground.  When he gently returned her to the platform he kept an arm protectively around her as he replaced the hat on his head, adjusted the angle to 'jaunty' and thrust a manly paw in my direction. I reached out to shake it to find myself pulled to his side while he exclaimed his delight at seeing me again. I felt my shoulders squeeze several inches towards each other as he manoeuvred all three of us around to face the opposite direction. He gently encouraged us in the required direction and when I turned to collect the bags found that he'd scooped them all up, one in each hand and one under each arm. Nodding cheerily towards the exit he began explaining all the plans he'd made to introduce us to the local area over the next few days as we walked from the station.

Ely Cathedral

At the large sleek automobile parked in front of the station building he flipped open the expansive boot and put the bags effortlessly away before the gleaming lid seemed to close automatically. I found myself grinning at the sight. Typical! Nothing's ever ordinary around this man. A quiet cough brought me from my reverie to find him standing by the open rear door as G took her seat. He closed it behind her and opened the front door, indicating with a look that I should sit up front beside him. The journey from the station took only a few minutes as he explained the rail company had built the station on the edge of his estate and sure enough we were soon to pass through the entrance gates and onto the drive beyond. It was 'unfortunate' in one way explained our host as he drove at breakneck speed through the grounds, as the views were 'somewhat curtailed' by the station but it was frightfully handy for visitors. He went on to explain that the view in the opposite direction took in almost the whole estate and he'd set aside rooms for us on the third floor so we could take full advantage of the scenery. Nothing but thoughtful is Mr Roth.

Windows like these are really hard to see out of.

Putting them them so far off the floor doesn't help either.

He paused at the wide door long enough to punch a few digits into a keypad and once past the secure entrance and into the house itself we were shown to our room and given time to get freshened up. Indigo said we should take our time and when ready he had some refreshments prepared and we could relax and catch up with all the news since we'd last met when he'd come to ours to stay a couple of months before.  Later, after a wash and brush up, our host, now sat langourously in a huge wing-back chair with a velvet smoking jacket to replace his outdoor coat,  a tassled fez perched on his dark hair and with red velvet slippers on his huge feet, plied us with delicious coffee and petits-four. The coffee, as expected coming from something of a connoisseur, was exceptional. I enjoyed the after dinner snifter that followed a home cooked meal later too. The perfect and civilised end  to a days travelling.

Indigo had just completed a challenging month of writing while working on his first book, but the output had been largely frustrating as it had shown him that what he'd hoped to get out as one novel was now looking like three or four. Glad of the opportunity to take a breather, he'd organised the next few days so we could spend time together and indulge in our shared passion for photography and cream teas. Sorry - I mean architecture. He talked us through the architectural delights of some of the coffee houses, tea shops and cathedrals he hoped to take us to before we spent the rest of the evening comparing our camera gear and discussing the pros and cons of digital photography and visualising travel through time and relative dimensions in space until it was time for bed.

York Minster

The next few days would pass quickly as we hurtled enthusiastically from place to place with Indigo behind the wheel of his charabanc. Writing this from home after the event and given the speed of his driving, the memories are blurred. Hopefully, the photos aren't.

York Minster

I got some odd looks lying down to take this.

{but I still enjoyed the snooze too}

Thank you Indigo. Hopefully we can do The Edinburgh Festival this year.

See you later.

Listening to:

York - Je ne regret rien.....

We sit in the large window of the French style bistro and watch the world go by. The bistro is part of a restaurant chain but despite that we like it and its location on one of York’s tiny medieval streets near The Minster is perfect for us. We love York and come here once or twice a year for an overnight stay; to walk its ancient streets and linger in the tiny old quarter under the massive spires of The Minster, enjoying the old houses overhanging the narrow lanes beneath. It doesn’t matter that those lanes are often choked with tourists or that many of the shops are stuffed with items aimed at the same audience. Its just a place that appeals to us. Restaurants, bars and coffee shops can be found every few yards, yet there are sights to remind you that people live here too; the huge market and butchers and bakers shops doing brisk trade in everyday items.

 

We came this morning from Berwick upon Tweed by train, a couple of hours on the limited stop service through Newcastle and Darlington and on down the coast. The weather has been atrocious and raining non stop - so bad in fact that I’ve come without my camera - but despite that we looked forward to getting here. We know where we want to go on days like this and the best route to get there. Once clear of the station at York it’s a ten minute umbrella-covered walk into town and Café Rouge, past the world famous ‘Betty’s’ restaurant and tea-rooms - too rich for our pockets today - and on down towards the spires that loom over the buildings beside them. A right turn and a hundred yards takes us to the half dozen steps up to the door I hold open to let the Lovely G pass then shake off the dripping umbrella before closing it and following behind her. The waiter takes the umbrella and our damp coats as he shows us the table by the window and tells us he’ll be back momentarily in appealingly accented English. Within a few seconds we have menus to peruse while he fetches our drinks and we settle in to enjoy relaxing in the warmth of the rustically decorated room with its display of fin de siecle French poster art, dark wood and painted walls.

 

 

The window has room for three tables of two - one on either edge and one in the middle - ours is at the left hand side of the three with a view up and down the street outside. The window sits perhaps four feet above street level and is decorated with gold edged, red painted letters advertising ‘Plats du Jour’. ‘Sandwichs’, Baguettes’ as well as ‘Boisson Chaud’, ‘Bierres et Vins’ and other temptations for rain drenched pedestrians.

 

The rain spattered pavement outside is busy with people coming and going at the accelerated pace of people keen to be out of the rain. It strikes me that this view of humanity has been essentially the same to be had here for several hundred years; people passing by in all weathers loaded with essentials or luxuries. The intentions are the same, merely the clothes are different. We smile across our menus and begin to read. I take a large sip of my red wine and enjoy its mellow fruitiness and perfect temperature as I try to decide what to have. This obvious detail is one of the reasons I like café Rouge so much. Too often a glass of red wine elsewhere is served too cold to taste anything other than wet. But, back in the now, we’ve decided on a light lunch as we’ll probably eat later too, so I skip a starter and choose a steak baguette with salad and thin crispy frites while The lovely G goes for fishcakes, salad and frites. The place has become noticeably busier as the rain continues. We were lucky to get this table by the window.

 

 

While we wait we talk idly across the table, looking forward to a more authentic French experience when we go to Carcassonne in a week. This overnight break has been postponed several times when we couldn’t match my time off with availability at the hotel we had arranged and now the deal is about to expire so we have to take it or lose it. So, we’re using it to get in the mood for France and I hope out loud that the weather there will be better than outside the window, where umbrellas are the essential accessory. Out there, in Scots parlance, the rain is ‘stoatin’: the heavy drops creating large splashes as they explode on the umbrellas, heads and shoulders of those unfortunate enough to be outside. We smile selfishly and I raise a glass to the smiling G across the table. Jings! - its good to be warm and dry on this side of the glass!

 

 

Some time later I smear the last piece of my medium rare steak with Dijon mustard and close a final bit of crusty baguette around it before crunching down on its savouriness for the last time. Wiping my lips with the napkin I sigh contentedly and look across the table to where G is still some way from finished - she’s a more genteel eater than I, especially when famished. I take another gentle sip of my wine and turn my eyes outside again. The rain’s continued unabated and the street has become heavily puddled by the hammering rain and by old gutters overflowing causing walkers to step off the pavement onto the road here and there to avoid an unwanted shower. Time too has marched on while we’ve been here, the light has slipped to the extent that the occasional passing cars now have their lights on, causing the raindrops hitting the ground to dance like a million diamonds in front of them. Pedestrians seek a safe distance pressed against shop fronts until they‘re gone and now seem slower moving and more hunched over than before despite their umbrellas. I muse whether this might be because of the amount of water their clothing has absorbed or dripped into bags of shopping.

Much later after coffee and conversation as warm as the room we both touch the same topic in synchronicity - should we stay or should we go?

 

You probably know my answer to that already, don’t you?

 

I recommend the house red -  preferably a bottle......….and the dinner menu.

 

 

See you later.

 

 

Listening to: