Aye, so Friday was marathon trip from home to Lincoln (well,
actually a motorway service station on the outskirts of Lincoln) to pick up a
newish canoe and then back up to York to get Mandy and Ewan off the train
before driving to Driffield for a couple of nights in a wee hotel. Phew. A ten-hour day
in the car for me and Ellen and first class rail travel for Mandy and Ewan. Poor
wee Ellen - where’s the justice? She seemed happy with chocolate and a Haahoo.
Woke up to snow on Saturday so obviously that means heading
to the seaside. Bridlington has all the charm of a run-down seaside resort – the
faded grandeur of the paint flaking Victorian and Georgian terraces that are
now flea-pit bed and breakfasts; the long lines of gaudy “amusement” arcades
with dance music blasting out of cheap tinny speakers; chip shops and donut
stands with rancid oil in deep fat fryers that are just not hot enough to cook
without saturating. Bliss. It looks even weirder with a dusting of snow.
It goes without saying that Ewan was entranced by the whole spectacle.
If we’d have taken our eyes off him for a second he would have been straight
into the hands of the Coachman
and off to Pleasure
Island.
York,
on the other hand, reeks gentility and well organised history. The sort of
place where philosophy students sit in coffee shops getting epistemological and
discussing the extra characters available on an iPhone keyboard if double-tap
and pinch. Turn any corner and there’s some 12th century relic, a
massive bit of church or a section of the old city wall staring back at you. So
you have to wonder why, in a place where history is round every corner, there
was a massive queue at the bloody York Dungeon. Anyway,
a lovely wee compact tourist trap though it does take some fancy footwork to
avoid the Death Race
pensioners on their mobility scooters.
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