York, Scarborough, Whitby, A trio of really obscure places for you to finish North Yorkshire.
On the route into York I thought I spotted BRAPA being escorted back home after his triumphant tickathon in Hampshire, but it was just a delivery of fancy goods.
Here’s a nice Sam Smiths pubs for you, they really are lovely, aren’t they ?
As is York, though the
Cathedral Minster* doesn’t show up well on dreich days like this, so here’s one I made earlier;
The tourists wondered why I was ignoring THAT and taking photos of Bile Beans, you’ll know why.
This was a 3rd effort to visit the lone new York tick, a pub I’d walked past six times a year ago without once thinking “pre-emptive“.
Part hotel, part pizzeria, only part pub, but they’d been lovely on the phone and were equally charming now.
Everything seemed very purple.
I was the only person in the bar, on a Sunday lunchtime, until an Old Boy tipped up for his two lunchtime pints and a younger bloke in tweed with shopping nipped in for a three minute snorter, which showed that some people can put them back quicker than Mrs RM.
A half of Ainsty Best turned up, I put the exact money in silver on the tray, and Herb Alpert made a rare appearance.
It was quite pleasant, though a tasty Ainsty could have been cooler but I don’t want to sound like a beer bore. At least I’d made the Best better for those next two drinkers.
Tweedy bloke (not Jeff) went to the Gents, momentarily without his mask on.
Ha ! It’s not just me. I made a note.
“Oh no, I nearly didn’t wear my mask” he admitted to anyone listening.
He’d seen my notes !
“Let he who is without sin cast the first stone” I said, sagely.
Identifying me as a weirdo, he sank his pint and shot off, before the end of “Wichita Lineman“.
A minute later, I followed him out the complex one-way system, mask firmly tucked in back pocket till I remembered. Doh !