Today we headed off on the train with Rohan to York. As soon as we arrived the rain stopped so we grabbed the opportunity to walk around the walls. York is defined by its walls, with ‘outside the walls’ being a very different place to ‘inside the walls’. Historically it would have meant that you were safe inside and the walls were certainly part of a large castle and fortress complex that controlled all entries and provided some protection from invaders.
We climbed down at Micklegate Bar, one of the remaining original gates. A sign said that it was here that the Royalists of York surrendered to the Parliamentarians who had besieged them for three months, with an agreement being made that York, and particularly the Minster, would not be destroyed. The walls are not complete any more, with bits having been knocked down for the railway, but the original total distance was 3.7 kilometres, making inner York a small and manageable size for us as visitors to explore. The museum at Micklegate was very interesting, with their sign to look out for the low ceilings providing a humorous start.
We learnt the story of two ghosts. One is a woman whose child died of the plague and had to be buried outside the walls for quarantine reasons, while her parents were eventually buried when they died inside the walls. The mother is thought to be still looking for her daughter. The other ghost is Sarah, daughter of one of the Micklegate keepers. While playing with her siblings she lost the keys to the gate of York, and couldn’t find them despite frantically searching. When her father came to lock the gates at dusk the keys were missing. He lost his job and the family were thrown out onto the streets, with the father never speaking to Sarah again. She became obsessed with the keys and spent her life looking for them. Years later as a frail old lady she rushed into the Mayor’s Parlour and said that she knew where the keys were. A transformation came over her and the cares and worries of all the years fell from her, making her look like the child she had once been. Before she could tell where the keys were, she fell down dead. Visitors to Micklegate have felt a touch on their shoulders and turned to catch a glimpse of a young girl, who could have been Sarah. This was all good stuff for me, and whether the ghost sightings are real or not, here was the substance of people’s lives giving the place life for me.
There were displays of what life would have been like for a gatekeeper and his family, cosy family scenes which would have done little to still the children’s nightmares after heads and other body parts were left outside their windows, impaled for weeks for all to see. Edward IV had 27 heads left on display after the battle of Hexham. The last head was left there for eight years until it was stolen. In 1645 the gate keeper had to swear an oath that he would not let anyone who had been near an infected area or person into the city, for fear of introducing the plague. Rohan modelled some helmets which just happened to be on hand for a bit of fun.
The Romans had a fortress at York, which they called Eboracum, and it is thought by some that the name came from a king called King Ebrauc, who ruled the area in about 1000 BC. That gives York a very long settled history. Next it was known as Jorvik by the Vikings, who invaded in 867, led by Ivar the Boneless. By 955 the Anglo/Danes had taken over, with Eadwig as their first King, then in 1013 Sweyn Forkbeard took over as the first Danish king. That all ended with the Norman invasion, when William of Normandy defeated King Harold and became the first Norman king of England.We continued on our way into the city, noting the local flooding and feeling sorry for the restaurant owners whose entrances were completely inundated.
We were keen to see inside Clifford’s Tower; the earliest part of the fortifications still standing. We had to use our imaginations somewhat to understand that there had been many rooms, a chapel, and a wooden roof. The River Foss was re-routed to make a moat around the whole castle complex, which included the tower, but today there is no moat and the tower sits upon its hill in strange juxtaposition to the tour buses and invasion of tourists. Photos showed how much had been cleared and restored from the times when trees grew inside the abandoned tower and people came there for picnics.
A sign told the sad story of 150 Jews who, in 1190, sought Royal protection from a mob in the tower. They killed themselves, setting fire to the tower, rather than renounce their faith. Those who survived were massacred by the mob.
After a quick lunch on the run, we lined up in a queue waiting to enter Jorvik, an amazing museum set up from the archaeological finds of Viking York under the city’s streets. Evidence of roads, dwellings, food, occupations – a whole way of life has been used to recreate a Viking village under the centre of the city, where the finds were made. We were strapped into a ‘time machine’ to watch two figures on a screen go back in time, slowly at first and then faster through the centuries to Viking York. It sounds corny but it was fascinating and I was so busy looking at the clothes and hairstyles that I failed to notice that the backgrounds all changed too. Next we were strapped into carriages a bit like ski lifts that took us through the Viking village, with a commentary playing as we moved along. The sounds of a busy village could be heard with the people interacting with each other as we moved along. I could not understand any of the words at all, even though the lady leaning on the fence talking to her neighbour was quite clear. I should say that they were not real people but by this time it felt as if we were peeping into another era and so they may as well have been. I would have liked to go around twice at least and I needed another time machine experience really, but the crowd was moved on into a tunnel-like display of the actual finds, and explanations of how the clues were pieced together to learn about how the Vikings had lived.
A sign told the sad story of 150 Jews who, in 1190, sought Royal protection from a mob in the tower. They killed themselves, setting fire to the tower, rather than renounce their faith. Those who survived were massacred by the mob.
After a quick lunch on the run, we lined up in a queue waiting to enter Jorvik, an amazing museum set up from the archaeological finds of Viking York under the city’s streets. Evidence of roads, dwellings, food, occupations – a whole way of life has been used to recreate a Viking village under the centre of the city, where the finds were made. We were strapped into a ‘time machine’ to watch two figures on a screen go back in time, slowly at first and then faster through the centuries to Viking York. It sounds corny but it was fascinating and I was so busy looking at the clothes and hairstyles that I failed to notice that the backgrounds all changed too. Next we were strapped into carriages a bit like ski lifts that took us through the Viking village, with a commentary playing as we moved along. The sounds of a busy village could be heard with the people interacting with each other as we moved along. I could not understand any of the words at all, even though the lady leaning on the fence talking to her neighbour was quite clear. I should say that they were not real people but by this time it felt as if we were peeping into another era and so they may as well have been. I would have liked to go around twice at least and I needed another time machine experience really, but the crowd was moved on into a tunnel-like display of the actual finds, and explanations of how the clues were pieced together to learn about how the Vikings had lived.
Some diseases prevalent in Scandinavia and present in Britain have been linked to genetics and Viking migration. They include Paget’s disease and Dupuytren’s Contracture, which causes clawing of the fingers. English still has Norse terms in some place names such as ‘thorp’, from ‘porp’, meaning a farm or secondary settlement, and ‘by’ meaning village or settlement.
We went crazy after this, fitting in as much as possible in a very short time. First was an art installation in St Mary’s Church, which was called ‘The Memory of Place’ by Keiko Mukaide. Lighted candles floated randomly in an oblong pond set in the centre of the ancient church. A message form was covered in tied-on scraps of paper that people had written on in response to the ideas in the installation.
A little puzzled by it all, we hurried on to catch the Regimental Museum before it closed. We had a quarter of an hour only but in we went, since our two day museum passes meant that we didn’t have to think about the cost versus the time issue. The museum was set out beautifully and had interesting displays of items collected over 300 years relating to the Royal Dragoon Guards and the Prince of Wales own Regiment of Yorkshire. The Royal Dragoon Guards grew out of the militia that King Alfred formed from able bodied men to suppress riots and to counter invading armies. The displays of uniforms and feathered shiny helmets look strange to modern eyes used to the obvious need for camouflage in modern warfare. Some looked as if the Monty Python costume designers had been engaged to create them.
Finally, we raced around to The York Dungeons, where we queued in the rain for about five minutes until a sizeable group had formed and we were let in. The York Dungeons tour is like being in a moving theatre restaurant without any food. There is a warning that young children should not go in and that other children should be accompanied, and it was a wise one, since every gruesome or bloodthirsty aspect with any possible link to York is milked to the extreme in scenes and live performances to terrify the audience. As we waited in a cobweb covered corridor, a plague victim sat up and coughed, with the spray of water shooting from her mouth us feeling as if it did carry death. Squeezed into another room we saw a mad doctor’s assistant who was dissecting cadavers in the semi-gloom, telling terrible tales and flicking intestines at the group. One small boy sobbed and sobbed, begging to be taken out and eventually his grandfather did just that. The grandmother and the older child remained and continued on with the group.
After a session on ghosts, a visit from Dick Turpin and his wife, and a session with the magistrate, we entered the torture chamber. The actor was the man from the ghost story, when he had reminded people to turn off their mobile phones or have them confiscated. He started his spiel in-character as a rough torturer who loved his job. First he ‘tortured’ a young girl with some implement, of course not hurting her, and only using her as a model and for a bit of fun in the act. She played along well. Next he chose the grandmother to be his model and she reacted very strangely, in an aggressive way, telling him to back off and leave her alone, which he should have done. However he did not and perhaps, thinking that she was playing along in a way, continued to press her into it. By now she was really aggro and the actor backed off a bit until, after only seconds, her mobile phone rang. The actor said, in character, in a menacing voice, ‘I told you I would confiscate phones and I will. She replied ‘Just you try!’ and the poor little grandson, fully confused, stood in front of her with arms outspread, to protect her as the actor approached. At this point the grandmother lost the plot and started facing up to the actor and he, aware that a different drama to the one he was supposed to be unfolding for us was grabbing our full attention, said that he would show her the exit if she didn’t cooperate. She took him up on it, so he had to lead her out with the poor little boy saying ‘Please Grandma, we don’t really have to go, do we?’ and crying as she stormed out into the cobwebbed passage dragging him along. The door closed behind all three and there were a couple of minutes of total astounded silence for the now abandoned audience before another of her relatives, who had stayed behind, whispered, “I bet I’m going to cop it when we meet up later,’ and everyone laughed. Then there was lots of talk and the returning actor, out of time, embarrassed and a little rattled, told us that the woman was going to send a letter about him to his boss.
York is just the size to fall in love with and to feel that you know it in a short time, so even the soft summer rain felt like a familiar blanket as we emerged onto the streets, leaving the subterranean horrors to the next group of brave souls. We made our way to a beautiful little park opposite Yorkminster, where a statue in the centre commemorates the fallen from the wars. Behind it stood a building where black suited masons were arriving for a dinner at one door. The other door was to the home of Huw and Tanya, our couch surfing hosts.
Huw greeted us warmly and took us upstairs for a cup of tea. Their house is full of interesting antique items, including some large cross stitches, and maps and information about York. Huw is an archaeologist, working on a new building site for the University. Unfortunately we couldn’t go and see where he works because it has all sorts of regulations as a building site, but it all sounded very interesting and something that would be great fun to assist with as a volunteer. Last year I had looked into doing some voluntary archaeological work for a portion of this year, but it seemed to be very expensive and something that needed a lot more research.
Tanya came home and we really enjoyed the lively conversation about travel experiences and future plans over a delicious meal. Their home is so beautifully positioned, with views of the Minster to one side, of rooftops and chimney pots of the higgledy piggledy older buildings to the other, and with a park in front.
We pooled our brains in an attempt to win their local pub’s quiz night, all to no avail. It was fun and relaxing to be with them, and gave us a deeper understanding of what living in York can be like.
We went crazy after this, fitting in as much as possible in a very short time. First was an art installation in St Mary’s Church, which was called ‘The Memory of Place’ by Keiko Mukaide. Lighted candles floated randomly in an oblong pond set in the centre of the ancient church. A message form was covered in tied-on scraps of paper that people had written on in response to the ideas in the installation.
A little puzzled by it all, we hurried on to catch the Regimental Museum before it closed. We had a quarter of an hour only but in we went, since our two day museum passes meant that we didn’t have to think about the cost versus the time issue. The museum was set out beautifully and had interesting displays of items collected over 300 years relating to the Royal Dragoon Guards and the Prince of Wales own Regiment of Yorkshire. The Royal Dragoon Guards grew out of the militia that King Alfred formed from able bodied men to suppress riots and to counter invading armies. The displays of uniforms and feathered shiny helmets look strange to modern eyes used to the obvious need for camouflage in modern warfare. Some looked as if the Monty Python costume designers had been engaged to create them.
Finally, we raced around to The York Dungeons, where we queued in the rain for about five minutes until a sizeable group had formed and we were let in. The York Dungeons tour is like being in a moving theatre restaurant without any food. There is a warning that young children should not go in and that other children should be accompanied, and it was a wise one, since every gruesome or bloodthirsty aspect with any possible link to York is milked to the extreme in scenes and live performances to terrify the audience. As we waited in a cobweb covered corridor, a plague victim sat up and coughed, with the spray of water shooting from her mouth us feeling as if it did carry death. Squeezed into another room we saw a mad doctor’s assistant who was dissecting cadavers in the semi-gloom, telling terrible tales and flicking intestines at the group. One small boy sobbed and sobbed, begging to be taken out and eventually his grandfather did just that. The grandmother and the older child remained and continued on with the group.
After a session on ghosts, a visit from Dick Turpin and his wife, and a session with the magistrate, we entered the torture chamber. The actor was the man from the ghost story, when he had reminded people to turn off their mobile phones or have them confiscated. He started his spiel in-character as a rough torturer who loved his job. First he ‘tortured’ a young girl with some implement, of course not hurting her, and only using her as a model and for a bit of fun in the act. She played along well. Next he chose the grandmother to be his model and she reacted very strangely, in an aggressive way, telling him to back off and leave her alone, which he should have done. However he did not and perhaps, thinking that she was playing along in a way, continued to press her into it. By now she was really aggro and the actor backed off a bit until, after only seconds, her mobile phone rang. The actor said, in character, in a menacing voice, ‘I told you I would confiscate phones and I will. She replied ‘Just you try!’ and the poor little grandson, fully confused, stood in front of her with arms outspread, to protect her as the actor approached. At this point the grandmother lost the plot and started facing up to the actor and he, aware that a different drama to the one he was supposed to be unfolding for us was grabbing our full attention, said that he would show her the exit if she didn’t cooperate. She took him up on it, so he had to lead her out with the poor little boy saying ‘Please Grandma, we don’t really have to go, do we?’ and crying as she stormed out into the cobwebbed passage dragging him along. The door closed behind all three and there were a couple of minutes of total astounded silence for the now abandoned audience before another of her relatives, who had stayed behind, whispered, “I bet I’m going to cop it when we meet up later,’ and everyone laughed. Then there was lots of talk and the returning actor, out of time, embarrassed and a little rattled, told us that the woman was going to send a letter about him to his boss.
York is just the size to fall in love with and to feel that you know it in a short time, so even the soft summer rain felt like a familiar blanket as we emerged onto the streets, leaving the subterranean horrors to the next group of brave souls. We made our way to a beautiful little park opposite Yorkminster, where a statue in the centre commemorates the fallen from the wars. Behind it stood a building where black suited masons were arriving for a dinner at one door. The other door was to the home of Huw and Tanya, our couch surfing hosts.
Huw greeted us warmly and took us upstairs for a cup of tea. Their house is full of interesting antique items, including some large cross stitches, and maps and information about York. Huw is an archaeologist, working on a new building site for the University. Unfortunately we couldn’t go and see where he works because it has all sorts of regulations as a building site, but it all sounded very interesting and something that would be great fun to assist with as a volunteer. Last year I had looked into doing some voluntary archaeological work for a portion of this year, but it seemed to be very expensive and something that needed a lot more research.
Tanya came home and we really enjoyed the lively conversation about travel experiences and future plans over a delicious meal. Their home is so beautifully positioned, with views of the Minster to one side, of rooftops and chimney pots of the higgledy piggledy older buildings to the other, and with a park in front.
We pooled our brains in an attempt to win their local pub’s quiz night, all to no avail. It was fun and relaxing to be with them, and gave us a deeper understanding of what living in York can be like.
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