In which I discover Toad Ramps and a Famous Ruin

The grounds around Fountains Abbey and Studley Royal have undergone serious renovations and restorations over the years. This includes the installation of toad ramps. When the Moon Pond that lies before the Temple of Piety (originally dedicated to Hercules) was upgraded, involving the evening out of the edges of the circular pond and the two crescent ones either side (as well as reinstalling a polished Neptune in the centre), it became quickly apparent that the toads would no longer be able to climb out of the ponds with ease. The edges, once unkempt and sloped at the perfect angle for toad-evacuation, were now cut at an angle so vertical that, should the water level lower as in summer, the toads would find themselves trapped.

A fine example of a toad ramp

The solution was to affix small, carefully designed, toad-width pieces of wood into the banks of the ponds at an angle conductive to leisurely vacation. These toad ramps can now be seen in several waterways around the area. I applaud the care and concern of the carers of the estate, and only hope that they later go on to install bat boxes.

A swan, nesting near a toad ramp

It may be true that I didn't see any toads on my excursion, but I can only assume that this was because they were so content with their accommodation that they felt no need to make a fuss about it, and rather fancied to continue their every day life of toading.

There were other animals - crows, rabbits chillaxing on the green, pheasants with their bold feathers and choked cough of a call, white swans nesting and various ducks ducking, crows, assorted English song birds chirruping merrily in the trees, invisible deer, crows.

In general, the livestock was similar to what I encountered on
my journey from the mighty city of Ripon, North Yorkshire.

(It may be interesting to note at this juncture that the River Ure flows through Ripon, a river that you may recall later goes on to become the River Ouse that I so early encountered.)

I followed bridle paths and public walkways to Fountains Abbey, taking me down a hedged road, through a little woods lined by a crumbling wall, and across green farmland, before I arrived at one of its entrances off the road. I have the instinct of a rural girl from New Zealand - you do not trespass on other people's land unless you are planning on stealing some of their sheep to pan off as your own and send to the works. And you certainly don't wander through an obvious barn area where cattle are penned up in buildings waiting to be administered, and the farmer is standing nearby with his dog. In England, if you have a right of way across the land, you do. It's not trespassing. Just make sure you have decent boots on.

Along a public walkway. Or bridle way. Something.

The ruins of the abbey came into sight before I reached an official entrance. I had to stop and take a good look, and wonder why the sheep weren't admiring it too, because the ruins were right there. The fog that had plagued the fields on the bus to Ripon had burned off in the sun, and these were big and impressive ruins. Some parts were undoubtedly ruined, and others seemed, from my vantage point, as though they might still be in use. I rate these ruins highly. I'll have to start a ruin-rating scale (Rate-My-Ruin, How Am I Ruining? Call 0800 RUIN IT) before my time here is up.

A view from some farmland

The abbey was built by Cistercian monks, perhaps some of the simplest and silentest of them all, who, at least partly due to Henry 8th, mysteriously vanished into the ether and left their abbey to the elements. And so, while a lot does still remain, more has fallen. What does stand is hollow inside, but in a promising way. My favourite parts were the passage made beside and beneath the abbey for a little stream that used to work the mill, and large window several stories high that sits like a picture frame that holds part of the world.

It's around the corner that the water gardens and other Georgian delights lie, so the Abbey has the scene mercifully to itself, a giant ruin stretched out on the green with small hills and clusters of trees and growth surrounding it.

Today, he's
the statue

As well as its be-statued water features and Rustic Bridge, the grounds beyond the abbey have a few other treats, like the Serpentine Tunnel of stone that curves exactly to give one brief moment of complete darkness, Anne Boleyn's Seat looking down over the grounds (I guess she sat there, but I'm not entirely certain; I didn't), and a small Temple of Fame. It has similar Romanesque columns to the Temple of Piety below it, but is a small open structure with a concave roof. It put me in mind of Chaucer's House of Fame, of course, full of gygges and chirkings and many other workings. Though it didn't have the steam-punk quality of Chaucer's, I could imagine the secrets and gossip this temple contained swirling and darting around - and indeed, when I whispered my own message of love (wich I wol nat endyte) I heard it echo around and hoped that it flew off out into the world (or was carried by a giant and loquacious eagle) and found its owner, who was most likely asleep at the time.

I wonder what it would have been like, at the very beginning of the ruins' change from landscape to attraction. I wonder what it would have looked like, overgrown and forgotten, and what it would feel like to be the one to pull back the creepers with garden gloves, and uncover something like that.

Edinbvrgh Part Two: A Really Big Hill and a Really Snazzy Castle

The best thing I have experienced so far has been, quite easily, Arthur's Seat. Let me give you the sketch Robert Louis Stevenson, ex-local, made, describing it as

"a hill for magnitude, a mountain in virtue of its bold design." 

Just to give you a wee view from the top of the Seat

Somehow I hadn't seen a photograph of Arthur's Seat, and when I arrived in Edinburgh (or rather, when I felt well enough to look higher than my toes the next morning) I was instantly impressed. The rock was enticingly broken, the land green and sloped perfectly. I found it surprisingly difficult to capture in a photograph what it looks like from a distance, possibly because despite its impression on the skyline it needs more of the space of sky and land than a camera can hold. Others would say, It's just a big rock. Goddamnit. Do we really have to climb it? I only bought my going-out shoes, and I'm hungry.

Broken chapel: ineffectual

Sunday was cloudy, so cloudy that when I chanced to look directly at the sun (as I so oft do) I could see the perfect sphere of it behind the clouds, no brighter than a full moon. A park has been presented to the Seat in offering, and the weather gave its valleys and rises a gloomy glow as I stepped up over the first tiny little rise into Holy Rood Park. I wished that I could have a small secret cottage built into the rocks, or hidden in the soil of the hillside.

On that day we decided not to walk to the top, as time was limited and my legs were still weak; rather, we picked our way across the short tough grass and various trails, gently rose, more softly still descended, and came to the ruined wall of St Anthony's Chapel. There was something ineffectual about it.

One view from the final ascent

It is on Arthur's Seat that the Bronze Age signs of habitation can be found, somewhat around the bend and up from this broken monument to Christianity (one could hardly expect a chapel to last on such a pagan hill). There are the remains of two forts defenses visible near the main climb of the Seat, possibly once inhabited by the subjects of a poem written around 600AD, Y Gododdin (the poet was a notorious stutterererer). An 'Arthur' is referenced in this poem, which some people like to link to the Once and Future King and throw about to reinforce the potential link between Him and the region. It has also been proposed that its name may simply be a charming corruption of the Gaelic "Ard-na-Said," Height of Arrows. There is something enjoyable about the uncertainty of the name's meaning to me, and perhaps the mystery of history itself becomes the meaning.

For Arthur's Seat is indeed very old. It has a similar past to the city castle's place of occupancy, a volcano from the times when the British Isles had such things. It's what gives the rocks their sheer quality on the edges, what gives the soil higher up a purple tinge, as though the twilight had been trapped in it. When I inevitably returned the following day, and wandered around the park and climbed at last to the top, I was impressed particularly by the rocks. They shone in the sun, polished by the years and the feet of many camera-toting pilgrims. I, however, was not content with merely reaching the top, and instead wandered around the top of the cliff faces and then back beneath them, just to have walked there.

The tippity top

The broken open ground

The castle I alluded to in the title of this post is not, perhaps, the one you would have assumed. I didn't even look at the cost of Edinburgh Castle's entry. I'm not so interested in whole castles with their fancy-schmancy airs (having been in so many already). I like the unoccupied ruined ones. Craigmillar Castle was a brilliant chance to see such a structure, not only because it gave me the opportunity to explore more of Arthur's Seat but because, being a little out of the way, it doesn't seem to be a major tourist spot.

See that loch? That's Duddingston Loch.

For someone who enjoys walking, I do recommend taking a route on foot along the edge of Queen's Drive that runs up through Holyrood Park. It reveals an incredible view over some of the general area beyond the city, and particularly wee Duddingston Loch (and Bird Sanctuary), which you get a close look at when you head down the hill to walk on to Craigmillar. On a sunny day, like I was mostly given, it's quite delightful. So long as you don't walk too near the Canadian geese with your muslie bar.

The Castle is in varying states of disrepair, a well-maintained ruin that's gone through many alterations, additions and subtractions throughout its history. Most famous of its residents would be Mary Queen of Scots, and perhaps most plentiful are the pigeons who currently live there. Their sweet melodic voices bubble and tut and bustle and, on occasion, coo through the labyrinth of doorways and windows and spiral staircases and toilet holes and sudden spaces. There was one place, however, that they couldn't occupy - an impressive feast room and adjoining bed chamber, wisely boarded off by doors as it was intact. The rest was open to the elements. It was all rather confusing to find one's way around, but that was a great part of its charm - discovery.

Residents

One of the really notable things about this castle, particularly in comparison to something like Scarborough, is that it feels like you could almost live there. You might not really want to, unless it was considerably more furnished and had been de-pigeoned, but it is easy to imagine real people living there and doing everyday things. It didn't even feel as draughty as I had envisioned a castle to, and it wasn't as dark, though it could probably do with some central heating and a nice lighting system. Even the two impressive trees that sat in the courtyard behind the front entrance doorway seem to want, quietly, someone to live there. They stand either side of that door waiting. They long to be climbed.

I should like to end by returning to Mr Stevenson (who, as a side note, travelled to New Zealand on one of his many overseas journeys), or perhaps more to the museum in Edinburgh that is one-third dedicated to him. The Writer's Museum is tucked off the main, but with my GPS I managed to find it. It contains the artifacts of three Scottish greats - our man Robert Louis, best known for the pirates and high seas of Treasure Island; Sir Walter Scott, oft-credited inventor of the historical novel; and Robbie Burns, whose love is (or, perhaps, by now, was) akin to a rose of the red variety. Each poet has his own small level which can be accessed by means of a thin winding concrete staircase, a little like those I scaled in Craigmillar. It was one of the last things I visited in Edinburgh. It made me want to grow a big mustache.

Arthur's Seat from Craigmillar Castle

Edinbvrgh Part One: Things

Allow me - incompetently, inadequately, based on my brief acquaintance of a mere four days -  to introduce you to Scotland's capital city, Edinburgh, a concoction of old medieval buildings and newer Georgian structures arranged on the kind of uneven terrain I so love and that often gives cities the basis of their character. There have been settlers in the area since at least the Bronze age. Since then the buildings have gotten a lot broader and considerably higher, but some of its modern residents on a Saturday night seem to pay homage to that ancient history.

It's an ocean town, but it doesn't feel like it, for the water's still a good step away from the city's two-chambered heart. The seagulls may remind you of it with their squawking and chortling, but there are also crows cawing from unseen edges of those tall solid buildings and little woodland creatures (assorted birds in blue and black and white, city-smart squirrels who know to make use of pedestrian crossings). The most dominant features of the city are those of the land rather than the sea: Edinburgh Castle is perched up high on the stone of a dead volcano so cunningly that at times it's uncertain where geological forces end and human construction begins; Arthur's Seat long ago plunged its head out of the earth and decided it liked it, and still sits with its stone edges watching across the land. The air in general was cool and crisp, though at night in particular you can smell cigarette smoke and malt lingering in the maze of streets. There's piping on Princes Street all through the daytime.

I was feeling somewhat unwell getting on the train from York - which, it may be noted, travels at 125mph to get you to your destination in about 2 hours - and so my first arrival in Scotland was somewhat less full of the delighted awe I had envisioned (I had to restrain myself from fainting on arrival at the first hostel, though that was partly down to the change in temperature from what seemed in my state an Arctic cold outside to a tropical wave of heat slapping me upside the face). I did however have my own private moment of general meaningfulness when the train itself was initially departing and was assured, after I managed to comment that my grandfather would have been pleased that I was going to Scotland, that "Your whole family's pleased. I'm pleased. Everyone on this train's pleased you're going to Scotland." They were all stoked as.

Sleeping with the fishes.

We went direct to bed the first night in beds named for fish, and were rudely awoken by someone's aerobic themed alarm going off for 20 minutes from 6.30. We decided to take a stroll. It was planning on sunshine, and the city was only just beginning to wake, and I was glad to have someone with me for a couple of days who knew the city - the streets went up and down and sometimes underneath each other, and the buildings were all too large to see around for anything except a few clear landmarks from the appropriate angle. We walked up to the castle and admired its stony walls and the view from both sides - sprawling buildings and roads, strips of green, hills with snow on them blowing us kisses by means of the cool air. Later we made our way to a different hostel.

A morning stroll before that infamous Edinburgh castle.
Unfortunately, I left my poser's pipe behind.

A very large grasshopper eats time
in the National Museum of Scotland.

Besides the daring purchase of some bananas and muslie bars, our first big adventure was to visit the National Museum (after I privately scowled at people crowding and petting a nearby bronze cast terrier that apparently was incredibly sentimental in his lifetime and shared a name with my first budgie). This is a fantastic museum, full of real and sprawling history and a giant bacillus bacteria for the Science Festival that was then drawing to a close. Currently there is a Viking exhibition, which was well worth the entry fee. It was full of artifacts from Odin-themed jewellery to ship rivets, delicate combs to anemic skulls, and offered much more than the usual perception of Vikings as ill-mannered and blood-thirsty marauders.

There is a restaurant I must highly recommend, going by the name of David Bann. Precisely as Jessie had described to me, it is the kind of place you would take a carnivore to persuade them that a meal without meat can be delicious. The meals were beyond delicious. Our smoked tofu starter had an incredible texture and tasted remarkably like smoked fish and I savoured every bite. She had a mushroom strudel for her dinner, with a rich and hearty flavour; I had koftas with a zesty fresh salad and aubergine sauce. Oh, aubergine, how I love thee. And yet my ardour for the aurbergine cannot compare to the passions excited by the dessert - a panacotta in whiskey-soaked pears with some sweet smooth citrus sauce and a scattering of pomegranate seeds. I don't know if I have ever tasted, or will ever taste, something so fine again. I almost said that I wished I had taken a photograph of it, but I'm glad I didn't. Had I done so I may have sentenced myself to a life of pining. This way, I can at least try to move on.

Instead of a panacotta, here is a photograph of a door in a cafe that we had lunch (I had fresh duck salad; she had cauliflower and blue cheese soup) in:

A grave face

I was not with my charming companion for the duration of my trip, and was very grateful to have GPS available to me. I also decided to take advantage of one of the many Edinburgh-scary-by-night tours offered along the Royal Mile (a stretch of three long streets, approximately 0.6 kms long) with one called 'The Darker Side'. The group was small, the night was chill, and the tour guide was a comedian (actually, not sarcastically). He walked us outside the boundaries of the old city, up hills and through graveyards, gave us a small sample of some of the city's intriguing past - witches burning, a family of cannibals living in a cave, faeries, seventeen little carved coffins found beneath Arthur's Seat and a taxman's corpse thrown from its cliffs by angry citizens, and, of course, the notorious bodysnatchers Burke and Hare who sold bodies to doctors for dissections. The fresher the bodies, the better the price.

Possibly a pirate was buried here.

I took my own walk around Calton Hill, with its National Monument aimed at becoming a Parthenon before they ran out of money (more like a Halfenon), and through some of the graveyards. Where there is a lot of history, there are a lot of dead. Some of them still lie beneath the roads. There are also a great many mausoleums in Edinburgh, which seems to be largely due to that call for bodies as the medical profession began its progression. It wouldn't be easy for a resurrection man to get a corpse over those walls without causing damage to the internal organs that so badly needed perusing.

Calton Hill: eerie.

Scarborough: Fair

Scarborough is a very pretty town. If it were an ingredient in a baking recipe, it would be the knob of butter - mildly sweet, rich, essential, and knob shaped. From York, it's approximately an hour on the train (if there hasn't been a line-side fire) going through some pretty countryside and a couple of townships.
 

A view from the castle on the peninsula, showing both beaches

It's worth noting what a lovely and sunny day it was. Although there haven't been any rainy days so far, Wednesday was particularly delightful in its general attitude to life. Families were out in droves looking for outdoor entertainment. Ramblers were out rambling around on a ramble beneath the naked forest, which was, I must say, most heartily anticipating its upcoming appointment with the tailor.

People flooded off the station and tumbled over each other into the streets with wallets and shopping bags, but I could hear seagulls and as I walked down the slope of the main street the walls of the castle beyond came into view. I turned right down a side street, away from the beckoning castle for now, and saw the ocean. I was on the north side of the butter knob, the side with the gentle slopes that edge the water with amusements

The two things I wanted most to see were indicated quickly as I was walking quite literally down the main street - the ocean, with the sound of seagulls, and the castle, which soon showed its walls in the space between two buildings. I turned right down a side street, away from the castle, and finally got a view of the ocean with its small curved bay. I took steps down to the waterfront and crossed the road onto the flat grey sand, grasping at my footprints, and the smell of salt. The water was cold. I bought myself a burger from a little  black pagoda-like box that dispensed food and beverages, and walked down admiring the panoramic view and half-heartedly mocking the dejected donkeys being forced to carry hoards of children, just as Enid Blyton said there would be. Further along there was a man offering passage on a pirate ship, and the amusement park wheels and music churning.

Scarborough Castle is just as a ruined castle should look. It dominates the skyline to the east, stretched across the length of the peninsula's hill, grey-gold-brown and dormant. The light is fitted to suit it. Beneath it the land and trees were the perfect shades of musty purples and browns and flecks of underlying green for the season's tune, flattering with their matching subtlety. This is my first castle. I love it.

Scarborough Castle from within the walls - looking back west

The walkway to the castle takes you through the trees and along the edge of the castle wall, and unsurprisingly has some amazing views over the city. High enough, you can see the curves of both the north and south bays. The hill sheltered from the main breeze and so I found myself removing layers on the walk up, which wasn't even very far. It felt good to be up somewhere higher, and out of the streets.

The keep

The castle has about 2,500 years of history under its belt. The keep is in ruins, broken open for the elements, and besides that all that really remains is the fortress walls, some grated holes, and a scummy old chapel they won't even let you go inside. Its apparent from its prospect why its been settled by mysterious Iron Age ancients, Romans, Vikings, a chap who built it and had it stolen away by Henry II, and why it had roles in the

Civil War and World War I. There was a small museum type dealy in a building within that contained various items (or their reproductions) from the site - a Viking blade, pottery, pipes, dilapidated drinking vessels, and even large cannon balls weighing more than I'd want landing on my head and the tip of a shell from The War. I walked right around the old castle walls, and investigated the keep with all its curious angles and even curves from the broken and worn stones.

Anne Bronte's grave oooohhohoooooooo

I discovered three (or possibly two; it was a little uncertain) graveyards on my wanderings (for at one point I did get somewhat lost and have to navigate by castle keep from some higher land I managed to find). Many were old and made of sandstone, time wearing patterns out of them, and others had been arranged along edges and even at one place in a curious geometric conga line at the foot of lines of trees. The graveyard in St Marys has Anne Bronte's grave, which is instantly marked out from the other old headstones by the daffodils and other small flowers that had been set before it. Some society has even made a little plaque that includes the full original inscription.

I was also amused to find, a little down the hill, a playground with a slide and four rideable figures on springs with a graveyard right beside it. Only a little fence and a thin pathway down the hill sat between them. I'm sure there's a nice little message in that, and in fact on reflection it looks as though those little plastic figurines were already tethered to their own slabs of stone.

I walked around the peninsula also, looking up at the cliffs I'd been above filled with shrieking and honking seabirds, to the south beach. There was more sand here and fewer donkeys, and a warning sign about deadly wave action. On this occasion there was none of that, but by the afternoon the children were wrapped perhaps a little more warmly as they scuffled around in the trapped pools of water and built their own fortresses below the walls of Scarborough Castle.

York - A City in Peril

The wall that once surrounded York still surrounds part of York, in a kind of I'm-not-entirely-whole way. Based on its age, and setting aside the fact that York is a lot bigger than it used to be, you can excuse it, the poor old thing. They say it's one of the most substantially existing ancient wall in England.

A map of the wall walk

 Because the walls no longer join entirely, it's possible to get lost trying to follow the old path it took, but the pavement is marked with little copper castles to guide you. There are only about 2.5 miles of remaining wall, and its an enjoyable walk that gives you a wonderful sense of the city. At this time, there are also often daffodils sprouting on the slope below the wall - but at other points, it edges houses and some very fancy looking gardens.

Roman remains

The wall was built by the Romans, destroyed by the Vikings and replaced with a palisade, then replaced again in the 13th and 14th centuries with the stone wall seen today. Parts of it have dropped away for houses and streets and to let more horse-drawn carriages through, but this latter seems to have sparred the call to preserve the walls in the early 1800s - and so they remain, not entirely whole or in the best of nick, but certainly now letting traffic through and indeed, one could suggest, encouraging more as a tourist attraction. There are four major bars (gatehouses) which now contain museums and, it seems, a cafe, and also two smaller bars. The Monk Bar section of wall shows some particularly great signs of the old Roman construction, with fragments of old wall spiraling down into the ground, and the square foundation of a tower.

A further sample of the wall.

Monk Bar is now a point of reference to me - it is near a Sainsburys supermarket, second hand stores, the next section of wall that can lead me quite near the Minster, and right beside it is the marvelous Monk Bar Chocolatiers. Many of the streets in the center of York are pedestrian priority, or access only for vehicles, and some of these are cobbled and rather narrow. The pedestrians themselves move in an odd kind of way. I can't judge which direction they're going to walk in, or which side of the pavement I ought to be walking on. And there is a market, a constant market, somewhere within the maze of the streets.

The Minster, too, is a good point of reference (I suppose quite literally, for it is a somewhat pointy building). On Easter Sunday I was drawn outside by the sound of its bells and, walking early down the streets toward it on a chill sunny morning, I found why people extol the ring of church bells. The sound filled the streets, music but a different sort. It saturated the air in the thin streets, mingled with the warm morning sun and shone on my face. I walked through it. It was layered, undertones and echoes, tangible. Now bells are just a little bit distracting and mildly irritated (for I am clearly grown wizened in the many days I've been here). Church bells go off all the bloody time. But then, at that time, then it was incredible, and then it seemed that I might burst with it.

Museum display bird: I'll have what he's smoking

Finally, I should like to mention the Castle Museum, guarded by geese and full of trinkets and odds and ends such as period room displays, battle and war exhibits, a street scene that would have well served the set of a Dickens film should you clear out all the modern riff raff, and a Highlander crouching menacingly above the doorway. Not everyone saw the Highlander. I did, because I have madskills at noticing Highlanders.

I also discovered there was a Mackenzie imprisoned in the castle prison - a Simon Mackenzie who committed high treason in the Jacobite uprising and was hung, had his heart ripped out, his limbs scores, and was at last beheaded.

I do like York, and look forward to eating more of its chocolates, but I am anticipating also getting closer to a real life Scotsman in its natural setting. This weekend, we're going to Edinburgh.

Imma pop a cap in yo ass

The River Ooze

The River Ouse is about 64 kilometers long, born of the River Ure and coming to its conclusion at the River Trent. I don't know where those places are. The word 'ouse' is derived from the Celtic word 'usa,' which means 'water.' The river does have water in it. It often floods, dampening the houses of residents who complain at the time but don't really do anything about it. It flows slowly, so slowly I can't even think which way it flows, and is really just a straight-edged channel.

The apartment I'm staying in is very near the river. Upstream (we think, no one seems to know the river's directionp) a little way is an allotment, which Jessie has just taken a half-plot in. There's a good walking pathway along the banks, with some of the first blossoms of spring beginning to show on the branches, and melodic calls of birds unseen and delighting in the sunshine. I think it's the birdcalls that I noticed being the most different. The chill in the air reminded me of Dunedin, if I was to compare, and the trees aren't so different to many we have in New Zealand, but the bird calls make it clear you're in another land.

I like the idea of allotments - a piece of common land where you get to have your own plot to use as you choose (with two papers of basic regulations, sadly including the exclusion of animals in this particular place). It seems that often they're in demand - the one in two has a waiting list of 3 years, although the one Jessie has aquired had a waiting list of merely three as it's a little further out, though well within walking distance of her apartment.It's nice to think that people are so interested in growing their own food.

 

We had a look at her plot, which already contains asparagus and raspberry canes from the previous tenant, who simply decided it was becoming a little too much work for his later years. The raspberry canes need cutting back soon so that they can be ready to grow again and become bountiful. The rest of the plot needs turning over, and then planting. At this time of year, the allotment seems very barren, but I can imagine that from late spring through to autumn it must start to be quite an impressive sight.

Walking back, the temperature dropped suddenly and a few small - very small, tiny - flakes of snow swirled across us like a sun shower.

I've seen several magpies, which do make a cackling sound but one quite unlike those in NZ, and have impressively long black tails, and also seen and heard many crows. There were some little birds that may have been tits, but that is a guess - we need to get out the pocket guide to British birds that's hiding somewhere here, rumour has it, on a shelf. There are also many nests in trees composed soley of twigs. I suppose there's not much else to make them from at the moment.

St Mary's Abbey

Ivy on an old rain coat

The air smells like chocolate sometimes, fresh chocolate brownies of the richest sort, from a chocolate factory in a currently unknown location, and at night it smells like coal smoke. There are old buildings everywhere, from the mighty Minster and the Shambles leaning in on itself so that occupants in higher levels could shake hands above the street, to crumbling and lesser known buildings and walls. The museum gardens are also very close, with St Mary's Abbey and early spring bulbs and a bouncing squirrel. It's bouncy. Too bouncy.