Home again

I think the hardest thing about being in Newcastle was seeing things written down and desperately trying not to read them out loud in a Geordie accent, thus avoiding getting my arse handed to me. It's certainly a great city with a fantastic nightlife, and I would like to go back there some time with mates. Unfortunately, as I'd set my mind on heading home, it really was the last step of a very long journey and I didn't allow myself to experience it in the way it's meant to be; if you haven't done shots with a pair of fake-tanned boobs in hot pants, have you really seen Newcastle? I certainly hope not.

The strange thing is, after the first couple of days of my trip, I really didn't think I could do this. It felt like I hadn't been home in an age, and all I saw was a massive journey ahead with only me, myself and I for company, and no one wants that. But my unplanned trip to Shrewsbury, even before I left Swansea to head there, excited me as I realised there was no getting lost, and I thought, in the words of the great Richard Pryor, "hey, this shit might work!"

My second day in York was a bit of a downwards blip. A city I very much enjoyed on a primary school trip, I thought I was going to eat the place up this time round, but the weather was horrendous and, after getting absolutely soaked after a gloriously clear and sunny morning, I thought about jacking it in and heading home. But visiting Harrogate, spending time with my lovely friends Charlie and Rachel, changed all that, and I was ready for the next leg. It felt like the last leg too, even though it was almost an extra week, and the tedium of some of the towns that I've slagged off massively wasn't enough to dampen my spirits.

As I say, I'd set my mind on going home from Newcastle; my original plan was to go to Glasgow, hire a car and drive through Scotland from there, but the rental issues I had in Shrewsbury made that a massive gamble. Even so, I feel I could have very easily carried on and headed forth if I felt it could be done the way I wanted. But maybe it's fitting; apart from a few days in Swansea to see my aunt and uncle, the Shrewsbury fiasco made this an almost-exclusively English journey, and perhaps Scotland deserves a trip all of its own. Once I get the required utility bills to hire a car and the wall-bouncing frustration of being at home too long sets in, we'll see...

Last day in wet wet Newcastle

Newcastle is definitely a good place to be if you want to go out on the town (or toon, if you like doing what American tourists do) but, being as tired as I was and as alone as I was, I really didn't fancy it. Instead I went to eat at Coast 2 Coast, which I would call an American-themed chain bar and restaurant if I'd ever actually seen one before. I know, not exactly experiencing the traditions of the city in an American theme bar, but the alternative was either fried chicken or strippers. I'd planned to only stay for one drink anyway while I worked out what I could do for food, but I got inexplicably hooked on baseball, which they were showing on TV, for the first time in my life. The Cubs vs the Pirates, in case you were wondering (Pittsburgh won 2-4).

I had made up my mind what I wanted to eat, but Paul behind the bar recommended the philly cheese burger and went about describing it with such passion that I thought he was going to start either weeping or touching himself, so went for that instead. It was pretty good. If you're in Newcastle, go to Coast 2 Coast and chat to him; he's a nice lad and a good laugh, as well as being incredibly enthusiastic and helpful. You may have some trouble if you did want to do that though, as I have no idea what he was called and Paul's just a name I made up.

I headed back to the hostel absolutely shattered and ready for bed. I was woken up at half 3 in the morning by a German dancing down the corridor, playing music on his phone and shrieking like he'd gotten something trapped somewhere. Then more started to join him. My German friends are some of the kindest, most courteous people I know, but not these dickheads. After a little while of continued music, shouting, talking and running between rooms, I put my best Slough rudeboy act on and went out to confront whoever was in the corridor at that moment. I bumped into a young guy with his arm in a cast, drenched from head to toe; I don't know if they were pouring beer over each other or what, but there were empty beer cans in the shower room. He swore all the noise wasn't coming from his room, so I told him that when I banged on the door in 5 minutes time I'd best not see him in there. I went back to bed and didn't hear another sound from them all night. HOO-AH!

This morning I checked out and went for an explore of the city. Having 8 hours until my train, I was really hoping I would be able to find more to do than I did in Kendal or Penrith. I started by going round the castle keep which, I just realised, I didn't take a picture of, so will have to go back and take care of that. Then I walked along the quayside, across the Millennium Bridge and to the Baltic Centre to see the exhibitions they had on. After that I headed up to walk around the The Sage building, then back across the river to Big Mussel for lunch. It's £6.50 for a bowl of mussels in a choice of seven sauces with chips before 7pm, and I'm very glad I didn't go for large as the medium size was huge. I definitely recommend that place to anyone in Newcastle. Unless you don't like seafood, in which case I suggest you get your life sorted out first.

From the top of the Keep

Rushed afterthought pic of the keep

Tyne Bridge

Millennium Bridge

From the top of the Baltic Centre. Some sun!

Some stairs. Probably historic.

After that, I walked up to St James' Park. It's true what they say; in any other city in the world they'd build a cathedral on a hill like that...in Newcastle they built a football stadium. That suits me down to the ground cos I've seen more than enough churches in the last few weeks. I had a walk along the city's old west wall and really tried to show enthusiasm for the history, but the incessant drizzle was just dragging me down, so I trudged into a pub for a drink. 55 minutes til my train...

Part of the west wall. How they breached walls this thick, I'll never know

Legend.

Pot Pourri and freedom

I got to my hostel in Newcastle yesterday and had an hours snooze straight away to make up for the lack of sleep the night before. As luck would have it, I found out I will have the 4 bed dorm all to myself for my entire stay! I'm also right next door to a room filled with German girls, so things are looking up.

Afterwards, I met up with my fantastic pal Annie who took me for some Vietnamese food and then to a comedy night. Looking at the set list, we had a guess at who was going to be the funniest and who was going to be the Australian. Neither of us won. For a group of unknown comedians, most were very good, and £2 entry for 2 and a half hours was an absolute bargain. If you find yourself in Newcastle on a Wednesday, get yourself down to The Stand. And if you see Annie, get her to tell you her anecdote about Steve and his dad Geoff from her work. It's like listening to bloody Ustinov.

Newcastle this morning was a mix of sunshine and rain. Not the best day to have headed to see Hadrian's Wall, but I would've regretted it if I didn't go. Maybe. I read that the AD122 bus was the best way to explore Hadrian's Wall country, so aimed to catch that from the train station at 9:30am; the only time it leaves from central Newcastle. However, due to all the roadworks outside, I have no idea if it doesn't leave from there currently, or I just missed it as there is no indication as to which bay to catch it from. My only other option was to get the train to the bus's next stop, Hexham. However, the next bus from there was at 13:18, so I had to hang around until then. The service is much more frequent at the weekend, but still not good enough for what is essentially one of the most significant historical landmarks in Britain. So, because of its irregular scheduling, and despite what the website boasted about the bus being a rover service to get on and off at your leisure, I could only pick one site to visit if I wanted to make it back again.

On the train to Hexham, I looked at my phone, at the table, out the window, down the aisle...anywhere but at the gorgeous redhead sat opposite me, eating a baguette in a manner far too seductive for my comfort; seductive inasmuch as she was a girl and I'm lonely. Thankfully she finally finished, and I kindly (but hopefully not creepily) told her she'd smudged a bit of lipstick onto her chin. She thanked me and went about fixing it, and that was the end of our interaction. Then she got a banana out of her bag. I moved seats.

Getting to the Housesteads fort, which I chose as it is apparently the most scenic part of the wall, at 13:44 meant that I could either spend an hour there until the next bus back, or four until the one after that. I'm sorry, I like history and that, but I cannot spend four hours looking at a bunch of old rocks, especially in the rain. Having a quick scout of the museum, I reckoned I could kill 45 minutes in there if I read everything twice, but it wasn't worth hanging around all the rest of the time, so I only got about 40 minutes to look round the ruins in the end.

Like the history of York, we all learned about Hadrian's Wall at school, so I won't go over all that again. A strategic stronghold and deterrent, the fort's location was clearly chosen by the Romans for being the coldest place on Earth. The weather was still mixed, but much more in favour of wind and rain than earlier in the day, and the open plains made me glad I'd worn my waterproof trousers over my jeans, not just one or the other. It was not as scenic as I was hoping for either, so my photos are generally pretty poor.

If anyone is considering visiting a few locations along the old wall line, I would suggest avoiding the crappy bus, unless you go on the weekend or school holidays, and driving instead. You can go at your own pace, spending as little or as much time at each place as you'd like; some of the sites lack any facilities and really are just marks in the ground, but you may be forced to spend hours at each one by the poor bus service. TRAVEL ADVICE ALERT!

Yay, rocks!

Away to Scotland. Yah boo!

Last thoughts on Kendal and only thoughts on Penrith

My last night in Kendal was nothing to write home about, but I'm going to write about it anyway. After getting back from Windermere, I sat in the lounge area of the hostel I'd booked in to for the night to write about my day. This took me well over an hour thanks to some leathery old Aussie woman, far too middle aged to be backpacking around the world, who insisted on telling her life story and reading out her inane emails to anyone that would listen, or indeed couldn't help but. Gobshiteingly loud and grating, I very much doubt anyone has ever had to ask her to repeat something.

After this, I went for one of the more mediocre Italian meals of my life at Infusion. Next door is Bootleggers, a music bar, which I thought would be a nice place to sit and enjoy some live jazz, but it was full of kids. There's something discernibly creepy about being the only one in a room with, or even allowed to buy, an alcoholic drink, so I went to Ye Olde Fleece Inn instead, which was finally open. Its mullioned windows and wooden beams date back to the 1600s, when it was an open air slaughterhouse. It's not such a pleasant place to hang out now, though.

When I got back to the hostel, I found I was going to be sharing my otherwise-empty dorm room with a guy who'd just split up with his girlfriend. His mate had brought him to check him in for the night, and I thought it was a bit tight of his mate not to put him up himself. I soon found out why, though. He was, by far, the most horrendous snorer I have ever had the misfortune to hear. I've never heard someone snore on the intake AND outtake before, and he constantly woke himself up each time his breath would catch with a glottal clap. There was one point when I woke up and I couldn't hear him breathing at all, and in a half-awake state I thought he may have topped himself in the night. So desperate for some uninterrupted sleep, I vowed to check on him, but not until morning. He was back at it soon enough, though. No wonder she chucked him, the poor cow.

I was on the train first thing in the morning. The Visit Cumbria website describes Penrith as "the hub of the Eden valley", saying it's "an important shopping centre, with a good mix of traditional shops and sophisticated arcades", but it is certainly not the bustling epicentre they would like you to think. Way off base on the sophisticated arcades, they are right about the traditional shops, with many of the buildings with early 20th century signage still housing the same trades. This was not enough to entertain me for the 4 hours I'd overestimated I'd need in the town however, so I killed a couple in a pub. Of hours, I mean, not humans.

The best part of Penrith was the journey to get there. The weather was bright, if not warm, and the scenery was some of the best I've seen yet. Following part of the river Lune, the train runs along the rolling, bubbling hills of the Yorkshire Dales to the east, lush with green and zigzagged open over thousands of years by natural springs and streams, then past the threatening peaks of the Lake District's Scafells far to the west, aggressively knifed into form by volcanic violence over 300 million years ago.

Lake Windermere

I was up early today as I had planned a walk around at least part of lake Windermere. Windermere isn't the touristy village I thought it would be, as it isn't all that close to the lake, so after breakfast I didn't hang around. The morning had been grey, but the clouds started to break up on my walk to the lake, and it was almost a beautiful day as I climbed a hill and got my first look at that famous landscape. Even though the view was magnificent, the hills on the other side of the lake were still hazy and dark, and I got the impression I wasn't seeing them at their best.

I followed a footpath south along the shore until I could go no further, then went back on myself, rejoining the main road and walking up to see if I could find anything else of interest. Nothing. Turning back, I headed past where I had started and followed the road a while to see if there was anything that way instead. Ah ha! After 2 extra miles, Bowness-on-Windermere. Much more like it. The picturesque English country village I thought Windermere would be, Bowness clearly benefits from the tourism it sees due to it being literally on the shoreline.

By this time, the weather had cleared and the uninterrupted sunshine was giving me the gorgeous day I had hoped for that morning. I had a sandwich I'd bought in Windermere sat on a wall by the shore, and I enjoyed watching the flapping, wobbly men struggling with their rowboats, attempting to show off their masculinity to their dry-for-now partners and failing. Completely ignored by the dozens of swans around, my sandwich didn't seem to interest them at all. Infinitely less pushy and aggressive than the swans in Windsor, these guys sat almost like pets next to occupied benches, calm and disciplined, as if trained for some mental entry at Crufts. And yes, even though I understand I am a 30 year old man unaccompanied by children, I had an ice cream, alright?! I had a bloody ice cream!

Panoramic view from Bowness-on-Windermere

After a lovely walk up and around the hill of the village, I started the trek back to Windermere. My iPod was being particularly helpful and decided to play me a mini English medley of Bowie, The Beatles, Elton John and Roxy Music to enjoy in the sun. I don't care if it was written in Wales, The Rain Song by led Zeppelin is a powerfully evocative song that, for me, epitomises dear old England. Incredibly gorgeous, exuberant and symphonic, it never fails to make me emotional when the sun is out. A phenomenal piece of work:

Or click HERE

Kendal Mint Fake

Kendal isn't as rural and quaint as I thought a country town that's biggest call to fame is confectionery would be. The roads through town are very busy, and crossing any one of them is both time consuming and hazardous. The best method is to see a gap and just go for it, not forgetting to flip off any beeping drivers. The high street's quality isn't that far off Lancaster's, with plenty of shops shut down or empty altogether. It isn't all that picturesque either; far too wide, exposing all its faults, which are numerous, and the general state is worn and slightly run down. None of the pubs appear particularly inviting either. I'd relied on my phone for so much over the last couple of weeks - directions, weather, reservations etc - but the alarming lack of 3G reception left me feeling lost.

I checked in to the inn I'm staying in after an initial wander (in). The lady behind the bar asked me if I had stayed with them before, as she thought she recognised me from somewhere. This is it, I thought, my chance for tomfoolery! I told her she probably recognised me from TV. "Ooo, are you on TV?!" she excitedly asked. "No," I replied. "Oh," she said, disappointedly, and turned back to the till. Classic.

Even though it was overcast, it was warm, so I'd set aside a lot of time to walk up the hill to Kendal Castle. I need to work on my distance judging, as I made it there and back in under an hour, including the time it took to eat my lunch at the top. The views from the castle are breathtakingly beautiful; to the north are the Lake District hills which were strikingly coloured like sand by light shining through invisible breaks in the cloud, in sharp contrast to the dark, brooding valley all around. The town centre lies to the west, looking much nicer from above it than in it, while the rest of the town surrounds the hill. Sadly, judging from the debris in all the nooks and crannies, the castle appears to be crackhead central at night. The hill was the only place in Kendal I could get 3G reception.

The castle

This picture does not do the view justice

With little else to do in town in the evening, I went to the Brewery Arts Centre to see a screening of The Great Gatsby. It was OK, but spoilt by Baz Luhrmann's creative freedom. The style and music in Romeo & Juliet played an important part in making what could have been a seminal youth counterculture film, but where they were tools that helped create a spectacle by accentuating the drama, the contemporary music, poor special effects and Lord-of-the-Rings-esque fake camera swoops in Gatsby robs the huge, wonderfully-choreographed party scenes and set pieces of their period grandeur. It's also incredibly hard to sympathise with any character; the entire movie is set within a society of such an unapologetic decadence which at the time of the novel's release was an ideal to aspire to, but these days is now distasteful and difficult to admire.

After a bistro dinner, I went to The Shakespeare for a drink. I wanted to go to the Ye Old Fleece Inn, apparently Kendal's oldest pub, but it was shut, as were many pubs in town at half 9. I would've felt like I'd stepped back in time in The Shakespeare, with its domino players and pickled eggs in a jar, if it wasn't for the £3:35 for a pint and the pensioners on the next table talking about the Scissor Sisters.

Kendal Mint Cake is fucking disgusting.

Last of Lancaster

Was I a little harsh yesterday? I thought to myself this morning. I had had a few to drink, wasn't in the best of moods and took it out on Lancaster. Looking to make it up to the place after my unbalanced criticism, I got up early to be the first to the Lancaster Museum of Art, but the scrumpy fiends had beaten me there, already congregating on the museum steps. The main shopping street is charmingly named Cheapside, and it is awash with empty storefronts, 'ceased trading' notices and 'to let' signs. There is a Poundland, Pound Fever and a Pound Bakery where some things are half price. Emerald Aisle, purtortedly purveyors of fine quality jewellery, offers cash for scrap gold, as does Cash Converters. Cheapside also has two Gregg's, one of which is missing an 'E'. There seems very little to do in the evenings other than go to one of the pubs that isn't boarded up, the 80s retro nightclub Hustle, or Cashino, the local reel gambling emporium. All in all, there are absolutely no redeeming features in this malnourished high street that I was able to see. I think it is definitely the lack of tourism that's enjoyed by so many of the places I've visited that's to blame for this apparent lack of prosperity and any sense of welcome which has left me disappointed, saddened and without any fondness for this charmless and depressing town centre. Slough of the north.

The museum is shut on Mondays.

Lancaster

Up until March 2011, Lancaster Castle was a category C prison for male inmates, acting as a specialist rehabilitation facility for drug offenders. It was used for high security trials until 1972 as the prison and court were contained within the castle walls, and it was used to hold German POWs during World War I. Originally a Norman stronghold under William the Conquerors reign, the oldest parts of the castle still date back to the 12th century. It was the location of the notorious Pendle Witches trials in 1612, in which 10 people were executed for the use of witchcraft in murder. Witchcraft itself was not seen as heresy at the time, merely a felony, but its use in murder was punishable by death by hanging, and the Pendle trials contributed to more than 2% of all executions in Britain for witchcraft. It was also a major parliamentary stronghold during the civil war, resisting several royalist sieges.

Main gate to the castle

During the 17th and 18th century, trials were only held twice a year; if someone was arrested and remanded in April, they would have to wait until August for their hearing, guilty or not. Even if they were eventually found innocent, they could not leave the gaol until they had paid their debt to the gaoler; he was not paid for his service by the state and made his living from this perverted kind of rent. The cell conditions at this time were horrendous, with up to 8 people occupying an 8x10' cell. 'Gaol Fever', now known as typhus, was an epidemic among inmates, spread by lice. Apparently, the inmates clothes used to writhe, they were so infested.

Lancaster became known as the 'Hanging Town' as the court in the castle sentenced more people to death than any other in the country outside the Old Bailey. In its busiest heyday, trials lasted 10-15 minutes to keep up with the number of defendants, ensuring fair trials were rarely conducted. If they were lucky enough to avoid execution, they were transported to the Americas and, after the American War of Independence, to Australia in their thousands.

The monument

After my life-affirming trip there, I walked up to Williamson Park, where the Ashton Memorial is. It was overcast, but because the cloud was thin, it was surprisingly and pleasantly warm. It wasn't so pleasant after the two mile hike up hill, especially with full rucksack on back. I'm not sure exactly how much my bag weighs, but I would hazard a guess at around a million stone.

Built at the start of the 20th century by Baron Ashton in memory of his dead wife (second wife, mind), the memorial gives fantastic views over Lancaster, Morecambe and Morceambe bay. Once I'd gotten to the top, the clouds started to break up and I experienced the best weather I thought I'd seen in an age, but actually only three days. Sunglasses back on, mofos.

Lancaster, Morecambe and Morecambe Bay

Lancaster is clearly a town that hasn't benefited from any sustained tourism. Architecturally like many great towns I've seen on my trip, it's unfortunately stifled by an aura of deprivation and unemployment, with either cheap, classless or simply empty storefronts that remind me so much of Slough. It's also the inebriated waifs, tarted-up Sunday drinkers and the overly-vocal disregard of Monday morning that evokes the ambitionless principal of a town that just doesn't give a shit.  All this is just what I've perceived in the the few hours since I've arrived here however, and it could be a much more vibrant town than I'm giving it credit for. We'll see.

Song For Europe fever! Also, Lancaster

I had a fantastic night last night. Charlie's brother Matt and his family came round, along with their nephew Tom. We felt a little ashamed when they turned up as they'd all dressed as a different European cliché and we hadn't made any effort in that respect. The paella was irritatingly disappointing as it wasn't as flavoursome as last time and burnt a little on the bottom, but still got eaten. Thankfully, Matt brought round a stew that he'd made which was so amazingly delicious that, if it wouldn't have been a weird and unsettlingly creepy faux pas, I would've liked to have rubbed all over myself. Eurovision voting was predictably poor and obviously politically motivated, and the drinking game we played was ambitious and potentially dangerous. All in all, a pretty good do.

Lads

Costumes from right to left: Greek, Russian, Northern.

Had to get up at half 6 this morning as my wonderful and sexy friend Charlie offered to drive me to Preston. He was off to my old company's golf tournament and getting a lift meant a much cheaper and shorter train journey to Lancaster. We drove through the countryside via Skipton, which looked incredibly beautiful under the overcast sky and made me think it must be breathtaking in the sun. All drystone walls and crumbling farm buildings misted in the low-level cloud, the hills we drove over could have been the subject of literally hundreds of gorgeously mysterious picture postcards. If only I could have taken some photos.

Having driven through Preston to the train station, I'm glad I didn't decide to visit it on this trip. Having suffered from deindustrialisation and deprivation through the last century, it doesn't look like a place that has recovered well, and although all this is unfair to say without having spent any time exploring round the city, I don't think its a place I will visit in my life for leisure.

Lancaster isn't a place I'd planned to visit, but the train I was initially going to get from Harrogate to Kendal was long with several changes, so I decided to split it up with an extra stop. As soon as I arrived, I walked up to Lancaster Castle to look around. Entry to the castle is by guided tour only as it is still a functioning crown court, and luckily I arrived two minutes before the first of the day started.

The other people on the tour irritated me immensely. They all seemed to know each other and, due to their private jokes and group-inspired excitability, proceeded to, for lack of a better phrase, dick about. One of the women was a historian and couldn't resist letting the tour guide know as soon as possible, as well as bringing it up on several additional occasions after that. One of the guys, an American, kept playing "creepy" sounds on his phone to try and scare the women. His friend kept dropping a teaspoon. Awesomes.

Harrogate

It's nice to see Harrogate during the day. I've been three times before but that was for work, and I've only been out in the town at night. It was sunny for a while when I arrived so I had a nice walk around the Valley Gardens and Montpellier, then went to find some lunch. They were queueing outside Betty's tea rooms so I went to the Blues cafe bar round the corner. They have live blues music every night of the week, but unfortunately weren't playing much blues music when I got there. Also, the place seemed to be moonlighting as a crèche with 4 different mother & baby combos inside. Then two girls came in and ordered four black sambucas. I left.

I'm staying with my friends Charlie and Rachel while I'm here, and in the afternoon we made our way to the Harlow Inn for some food and then on to the Harlow Hill Working Men's Club. It's been a long time since I've been in a working men's club, and the first time ever I've been somewhere where rugby league is on telly and people are actually watching! It was also the first time I've ever seen someone with 'love' and 'hate' tattooed on their knuckles. We didn't win the meat raffle, but afterwards we went to Charlie's brother's house and he showed us his collection of cheeses. I love the north.

This morning we went for a walk around Knaresborough to see the castle ruins and a little bit of the village. Then we headed to Morrison's to buy some continental stuff for the Eurovision party we're having this evening. I am bravely (or naively) attempting to cook paella again....

Knaresborough

Leaving York

York wasn't as enjoyable as I was hoping for. Its potential for fun was totally overshadowed by the treacherous weather yesterday, which limited my plans somewhat and left me and everything in my bag soaked. This morning has been a mix of sun and cloud, but thankfully no more rain.

Star Trek was good, although not as good as I'd hoped for. Due to the trailer, I was expecting a dark, thematically-complex narrative about a politically-motivated terrorist, working from within society and being all the more frightening for it; a reflection of plenty of incidents we've witnessed in recent decades. I've seen so many almost-great films pulled apart by this compulsion of film makers to incorporate twists into their stories, and, although this film isn't ruined by anything in the plot, it could have been so much more interesting and more of an achievement if it had a more linear narrative.

Thankfully, after the film had finished, the clear sky had almost completely returned. Although it was after sunset, it was nice to enjoy a dry evening. I went to The Olde Starre Inn for food, which claimed to be the York's oldest licenced inn, dating back to 1644. I had the venison and blueberry burger, which was just asking to be tried; venison is a strange and interesting meat, almost pork-like, but the sweet chutney-like taste of blueberry didn't blend all that well with the peppery spice of whatever else was in the mix. After that, I went to the Golden Fleece for the express reason that it claims to be Britain's most haunted pub. It also claims to be York's oldest licenced pub, dating back to 1503, so I don't know who to believe. Can they both make that claim because one calls itself a pub, and the other, an inn? Ref?

The wooden-framed building of the Golden Fleece was built without foundations, meaning that the passageways and staircases have become crooked and sunken over time. With five resident apparitions, Yvette Fielding and Derek Acorah deemed it important enough for their expertise in 2005 and visited it with renowned ghostbusting DJ Scott Mills. They concluded that the spooky goings-on in the pub were definitely the work of some spirits.

The Golden Fleece building

I shared my hostel room with an Italian law student called Emmanuel, two guys from Singapore who take frigging ages in the shower, a Chinese girl who's heading to London for the Harry Potter tour and an American called Nicole whose T-shirt said 'Keep Vermont Weird'. Last night, the Singaporean guys were watching YouTube clips and laughing their arses off. One of them had such an infectious, high-pitched squeak of a laugh that I couldn't help but laugh along. He came and showed me one of the clips they'd been watching of a sketch comedian in Singapore. THIS is that clip. Inspired.

If you can't see the clip above, click here

Before my train this morning, I had one last walk around York. I visited the Museum Gardens again to see the ruined abbey in the sun (at last) and stumbled across an amazing indoor bric-a-brac junkyard called Banana Warehouse. Stuff piled upon stuff upon stuff, you could spend a week in there looking for what you were after. They had furniture, ornaments, model cars, board games, pianos, bicycles, mannequins, projectors, lawn mowers, farming equipment, stuffed birds, wagon wheels, poison and medicine bottles, bus conductor hats, fireplaces, a mountain of books and a fantastic collection of DVDs, including such classic titles as Jade Goody's Dance Workout and Goal II: Living the Dream.

HATS!

York: THE REVENGE

As the afternoon wore on, the clouds rolled in. And then the inevitable downpour, more horrendous than anything else I've seen on this trip. Sunglasses came off, waterproof went on. Up yours, York.

It had been such a nice morning as well; sat by the Minster in the sun, writing postcards and eating breakfast. I walked to Clifford's Tower as the clouds took over, hoping to find some educational shelter for a while, but it's a completely open-roofed ruin. Just a shell of what once was, £4.90 is a total ripoff for a sparse, uninformative 10 minute experience. It was once overgrown with trees and bushes inside and was a popular place for picnics, and I think it's a shame that English Heritage chose to 'save' it. I didn't even bother taking any pictures.

After that, I walked the two miles to Monument Close, which my miniguide said was the location of the York Cold War Bunker. It was indeed, but the guide neglected to mention it's only open Saturday and Sunday. Dejected and wet, I trudged back towards town, stopping in at The Fox for a drink and a bit of a reprieve from the rain. They have a stuffed fox and rabbit behind the bar.

Since then, the weather has been the worst its been since I've started. Utterly torrential, I had to go back to the hostel to change as I found out my waterproof jacket wasn't waterproof at all. Light, blueish-grey sky mocked me from the horizon, hanging there teasingly, always heading across but never over. Then, as I thought it couldn't get any worse, the rumble of thunder from the distance. That's always fun.

I've decided to seek solace in the cinema this evening - The York Picturehouse - to get away from the rain and finally see the new Star Trek film. I've been waiting for this all week.

A miracle...

SUN! I cannot believe it, there is not a cloud in the sky! I honestly started to think this entire trip would be done under a never-ending blanket of grey. I LOVE YOU, YORK!

Cheers bruv!

The weather was still poor when I arrived yesterday and there were a few spots of rain in the air, but, as mid-to-late afternoon rolled along, the clouds started to break up and I could finally see some encouraging dashes of blue. I had a preliminary explore of the city centre and a walk along a stretch of the city wall, which became much more pleasant as the afternoon became fairer. I also had a wander through the Museum Gardens, where the remains of St Mary's Abbey are. One of the richest and most powerful monasteries in the country at the time, it was another victim of the Reformation.

Part of the wall

Remains of the Abbey

The Roman Multangular tower. With children. I got arrested shortly after taking this photo.

After that, I went to Jamie Oliver's Italian restaurant, which was disappointingly so-so. The service was casually blasé, and the music selection, positively baffling. I love soul and Motown hits as much as the next man, but the theme from Shaft doesn't say fine or relaxed dining to me. The food itself was pleasant enough, but nowhere near the best I've had in an Italian restaurant, or at home for that matter, and was just about adequate in quantity. Nice loos though.

Imagine a hellishly dystopic future where everyone lives in one of the loveliest cities in the country but football in all its televisual forms has been banned by the aggressively polite ruling middle-class dictatorship...that's York. I had a mad dash in and out of the maze-like cobbled streets trying to find a pub out of the dozens around that was showing it. I ended up in a bar that probably wasn't far off your average Ben Sherman-filled faux-classy establishment you find in most towns. Lloyd's no.1, I'd compare it to. It was here I got talking to a group of burly middle-to-old aged men from Sunderland about football, York, Slough, Sunderland, some place near Sunderland they said is a shithole, my trip, how much of a dick Arsene Wenger is and how they actually wanted Newcastle to win and Sunderland to lose their last games just to stick it to him. Its why I'm slightly hungover this morning.

A glorious end to the day

Manchester

I seem to be chasing the weather. Every time I check the weather app on my phone for the next place I'm headed it says its going to be sunny, but when I turn up to be greeted by the pissing rain the app changes its mind and says the good weather has been postponed for a few more days. It's laughing at me.

Manchester has been pretty miserable as well, weather-wise. No shit, I hear you cry. My Travelodge was more bleak and sparse than I expected for a city centre, and the view from my room was suitably unimpressive. I had a nice evening though, apart from one major hiccup, and it was cool to see my friend Callum, at uni in manchester, for a couple of hours. Also, thanks to his student halls' launderette, I now have a bag full of fresh, clean clothes!

View from my window. Nicccccce.

More picturesque view of Manchester

It most certainly does NOT.

This morning, before catching the train, I went to the National Football Museum for a few of hours. Yeah, I got to hold the Premier League trophy! All two stone of it. I also got to see some cool memorabilia and collectables there, including a small collection of Tonka footballer statues from 1989, which I used to have a couple of. Gary Lineker and Terry Butcher, I seem to remember...I felt a brief twang of nostalgia over that. Elsewhere, an interactive screen allows you to watch a selection of England's best goals, then vote for your favourite, one of them being Stuart Pearce's penalty against Spain in Euro 96. I watched, I welled up, I fucked off.

click here if you can't see the link

Next time I go to Manchester, I am certainly not getting in any more taxis. Like most cabbies, they love to go round the houses, and until you walk around the city centre for a bit you really don't realise how small it is. A £7.50 cab ride from the station to the hotel was a 10 minute walk the other way this morning. On the map, the walk from the north west of the city centre to the university in the south east looks pretty daunting, but it took half hour at the most. Don't let it be said that this blog isn't practical and informative.

The museum

Rainy, rainy pavement