The North (it's not that grim)

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We are both bums at the moment - Mon finished her contract on the 22nd, and I've been unemployed since November.
Christmas was wonderful - Mum made a super-special effort to make the house feel festive, and food was superb and plentiful. Presents were followed by coffee and croissants - memorable loot included a Denby teapot for Mon and rugby tickets for me, among other things. Our South African friends came over for lunch, a walk and charades, all punctuated with uproarious laughter and good cheer.
We were given a day to recover before piling into what has turned into a legend - our Nissan Primera. Economic and mechanical considerations meant that all 5 of us squished into a smallish car for 4 hours, with all the joy this naturally entails. After only one depressing stop at a motorway services area ("We get you back on the road double-quick - because it's so awful in here"), we arrived at York, a splendid town which has parking a little bit out of the centre, thus following part of recommendations in an earlier blog. The centre is commendably fit for pedestrians, with little alleys branching off all over the place. After a brief walk, we decided to retreat to the Englishman's second home - the pub.
The following morning, Mum and Steph visited the James Herriot Museum - which received glowing reports - while Dad, Mon and I traipsed around the countryside. The wind whipped around us (and through us) as we wandered a gliding aerodrome. Just below the airfield we found the North's answer to the South's archeological heritage - The White Horse. Let me explain: in the middle of last century, a parochial schoolteacher decided that the the area would benefit from a quaint attraction. Casting originality aside, he copied what had been proved to be a popular tourist destination in the South: a giant horse. He and some schoolchildren went to a hill and carved out space for this large quadruped, and there it sits. We were suitably impressed. Better yet, however, were the ruins of an olod abey, destroyed in the 16th century by zealous followers of Henry VIII.
Our hosts for 2 days were some old friends of Dad's who had kindly put him up in a moment of 'whatthehecknow?'. We were treated to Yorkshire hotpot and gooseberry foule, two local specialties that were very well received. Our last full day was undeniably the best - Dad was treated to excellent views of Castle Howard, a main feature of a favourite show: "Brideshead Revisited". It was a landscape that most closely resembled one's vision of wintry England - low cloud over rolling farmland that leant a blueish tinge to the air, and public footpaths that will go anywhere you wish. This particular walk was dotted with monuments to the wealth of past eras; a mausoleum here, a grandiose bridge there. A late pub lunch was followed by a nap to make space for the next meal. Which was also superb.
One long drive down the M1 later, we were back in London. Whatever next?

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Photos

Farm, stone wall...
Vair English