York And The Internet: A Cautionary Tale

I don’t know about you, but if I find myself looking for a cup of coffee to kick start a day mooching about in a city, I like to seek out an independent cafe. 

The evil empires of Starbucks, Costa and Cafe Nero have their place and I occasionally find myself popping in to enjoy their wares. But whenever I have a little more time, I will head for the non-chain cafes where there are no intense young folk scrutinising their laptops pretending to be important while their cappuccinos and lattes go cold. 

I prefer coffee shops where the owners are actually on the premises to see that their own little empire is running smoothly as they have a vested interest in making sure that things are tickety-boo, and if you ever asked to see the manager they would appear in front of you to answer your query. In the bigger shops you are more likely to have to send an e mail to their Seattle Headquarters.  

There are plenty of such coffee houses in a tourist city such as York, where I found myself on a day off recently, with the intention of spending a couple of happy hours in amongst the old steam locomotives at the National Railway Museum. But first, of course, I needed a coffee. 

It was just warm enough to be able to sit outside without shivering so I took a seat in front of the window to watch the good folk of York go by. The window was full of the colours of Autumn, with red and yellow leaves and orange pumpkins filling the space between the items for sale such as mango puree and pickled shallots. I’m sure you could also pick those up in Waitrose as part of their “essentials” range. 

That might give you a flavour of the place. If I tell you that the bacon sandwich I ordered arrived on sourdough, with chutney, I trust the picture is complete. 

I found a seat in the almost-too-chilly autumnal air and sat back to observe a man wearing an old fashioned bright yellow fireman’s hat wander up the street with his attention fully focused on a newspaper which he was holding close to his chest to prevent anyone from seeing what he was reading. I assumed it must have been the Daily Mail. 

A couple of students on the table next to me greeted the arrival of their order by exclaiming that it was “amazing,’ before it had even landed in front of them. It gave me hope that the sandwich I had ordered was going to propel me to the same lofty level of excitement when my turn came. 

Of course, York has its fair share of academics, and it didn’t take me long to spot a couple of them. Both middle aged men, they had been been in the cafe while I was sitting outside and as they strode out together carrying leather briefcases and paper cups I distinctly caught the word “gusset.” 

My mind was still boggling when my order arrived. I was immediately bothered by a wasp who obviously didn’t know that it was now late October and he should have long ago disappeared to wherever wasps go when the nights draw in. 

A big sad looking old labrador lumbered apologetically in and plonked himself down under the table opposite me. He’d been in the river and fixed me with a melancholy stare that was a blend of apology for making a mess, and a longing to share my breakfast. But he lost interest when I explained about the chutney. 

I left when a couple of Japanese girls arrived and started to photograph everything, including me. I didn’t really want to end up like Ed Miliband (who you may remember lost an election because of the way he ate a sandwich) and as I was only in the city for a day and wanted to see the Minster as well as the Railway Museum, there was little time to lose. So I headed off, watched by the dog and pursued some of the way by the retarded wasp. 

Ten minutes later, the first thing I noticed in The Minster was the inclusion of King Stephen on the King’s Screen. Yes, there were other Kings there but my namesake has always been my favourite historical monarch so I was pleased to see him looking out from the wall. 

He died 868 years ago and has been largely forgotten now. But I’m hoping that one day someone will dig him up in whichever car park he’s buried under and give him a proper memorial. We know that he was interred in a monastery in Faversham, Kent in 1154, more than likely with all the trappings of a Royal Event, but then one of his successors – Henry VIII, I’m looking at YOU – came along and completely destroyed the place in a fit of pique because he wasn’t allowed to shag Anne Boleyn. Stephen’s grave was subsequently lost, but there is a team of archaeologists who think they might know where he is so my fingers will be crossed until he turns up again. 

It wasn’t just Kings who were cast in stone there. There are lots of statues of men – always men – who are immortalised in stone at various points around the building, all pictured wearing flowing robes and po-faced expressions. They will all have passed through the Pearly Gates by now so let’s hope that whatever they did that made them famous also bought them a ticket to Everlasting Glory. A rudimentary knowledge of history will probably be enough to indicate that most of them were refused entry. 

There were quite a few people in the Minster most of them using those hushed voices of people trying to be quiet in case God hears them. Some of them looked surprised, and others a bit irritated, that we were all asked to say a prayer at noon. Prayer? In a cathedral? Whatever next? 

There is a chapel that displayed all the local regiments’ military honours, reminding us that Victorians didn’t have to die in poverty on the streets of Leeds or Sheffield. If they joined the army in those days of Empire they could quite easily be killed in some very exotic places in the name of the Queen. For example, has anybody heard of the Modder River campaign? Me neither. But it sounds like a lovely place to go and meet your maker. 

Exhausted with all this thinking, I realised that what I need was a pint. The Golden Fleece boasts that it is the “Most Haunted Pub in York”, so I couldn’t resist popping in to have a chat with the ghosts. I was greeted by a surprisingly cheerful barmaid, considering that she had been shot through the head. Blimey, I thought, that’s pretty impressive. They even employ the ghosts to help out when they’re busy. 

One look at the calendar of course revealed that it was all a scam. It was Hallowe’en and the “ghost” was just the manager who had dressed up for the occasion. She had me fooled for a while though, I can tell you. 

I limited myself to the one drink and went for a quick look at The Shambles, elbowing my way past the international tourist set and the guided tours to try and get a glimpse into the shop windows. There was a Christmas Shop which had the air of having been there all year, and which was doing a roaring trade in baubles and scented candles. It was at this point that I thought the time had come to head off to the National Railway Museum. I could hear the locomotives calling me. 

T’Internet is of course a wonder of our age. It will reveal almost anything you want to know with only a few clicks of the mouse. You could find out where to buy an old fashioned fireman’s helmet; or what happened at Modder River; it will tell you why wasps are still around in late autumn. 

It will also tell you which days the National Railway Museum in York is shut, thus saving the hapless traveller the inconvenience of a one hour trip WHICH HE DID NOT NEED TO MAKE. 

It’s a good job the place has a Minster.