York, searching for The Shambles ...

My sore heart was eased by the spectacle of York's medieval streets - my sad thoughts left me - but I treasured one or two memories - they were like delicate scales, shed by some fabulous reptile -

Anne had left me to my own devices for an hour or so - I found myself wandering, letting chance guide me - I walked through narrow alleyways, peopled with shadows - I moved with an excitable crowd, hearing many different languages - we swirled under the projecting upper floors of lurching, half timbered, structures - I could see scarred beams, bright shop fronts, hanging signs -

I remembered how I'd once drawn Tudor houses, just like these - I was sitting in a scary classroom, copying the picture from a textbook -

To my joy, I then saw a sign saying - The Shambles - the very name was a provocation - I imagined butchers, in spattered aprons, hooded townsfolk, frightening sermons in the shadowy churches -

I saw instead chocolate heavens, Earl Grey Tea Rooms, Mr Sandwich -

But I did find a rowdy market, with bravos unlocking sim cards, pale shapely women selling ethnic jewellery -

I met up with Anne - we bought a blanket made of Yak wool - the man who sold it to us had a handsome, ravaged, face - his girl friend got the blankets from Dharamsala -

Here, I thought, was the faintest echo of how it was - the sharp voices, the guarded faces, the sudden smiles -