Bold parrots, The Ropewalk, memories of the Happiness Machine ...

Paul recommended a hotel for us in Barton upon Humber - there were two bold parrots in one of the lounges - I was much diverted by these raffish birds - they wolf whistled whenever a girl passed by their cages - they had clever, knowing, eyes - brass fans revolved slowly overhead -

There was a view of the Humber Bridge from the hotel gardens - a gateway provided access to the southern bank of the estuary - sandbanks were like the backs of sea serpents, barely covered by rushing water - shoals and deep water channels formed an intricate, shifting, pattern -

Outside our bedroom, there was a bookcase containing volumes for the use of the guests - there were creepy breeze blocks by Graham Hancock about lost civilisations next to stout yarns by John Buchan - Anne devoured Pollyanna -

Paul and Sophie guided us around the ancient, quirky, town - they took us to The Ropewalk, an arts centre housed in a former rope factory - the narrow building was almost a quarter of a mile long, a reef of venerable brick - we walked in bright sunshine -

Inside, we visited the rope museum, with its exhibits of ropes and bizarrely shaped machines - I was moved by the poignant testimonies of the workers - a widow had donated the small brass lighter given her husband as a retirement gift -

We looked into the galleries - I stared for a long time at the brave abstracts - I tried to gauge the meaning of the shapes and colours -

I remembered the fracas in the Venice Guggenheim, when Anne had tried to tidy up a happiness machine -

Humber Bridge, waiting for angels ...

We left York in the late afternoon - the park and ride bus was full of benign Northerners - raindrops beaded the windows - clouds thickened over the story filled city - I imagined Vikings, prodigal with gold, boarding the bus - perhaps George Hudson was keeping his head down at the back -

I'd looked at our route to the Humber earlier in the day - I'd been confident that the drive would pose no problems - I'd traced my finger over the bright maps in the big AA road atlas -

But soon I was driving around the ring road, at the height of rush hour - both lanes of the dual carriageway were the habitat of merciless drivers - turning onto the A 1079 required the mad confidence of an early balloonist -

It started to rain heavily - the rear screen wiper malfunctioned - we drove south, through growing darkness - I felt as though we were entering a desolate zone - we passed tiny secretive villages - I became aware of huge fields - I sensed an empty, ambiguous, countryside -

Then we saw the bridge - this immense structure rose up before us, brilliantly lit, the portal to some flawless Alphaville - far below us was a wide estuary, lost in rain and mist - slender towers marked the limits of the span -

The next morning, I gazed at the bridge from the banks of the estuary - in the pale, uncertain, light it still drew my eye -

I felt that, any moment, I would experience something miraculous - angels might alight upon those sweeping cables - silver trumpets would sound within the clouds -

Visiting the shrine of Saint Margaret Clitherow ...

I can remember scribbling, in a dusty lecture theatre, Elizabeth Tudor's words - I have no desire to make windows into men's souls - outside, red buses sailed down Gower Street - behind me, two detectives sat each side of a Prime Minister's son - dust motes waltzed in shafts of May sunshine -

Later, I wrote an essay about Elizabeth's religious policies - each sly page of my essay was barnacled with footnotes - I narrowed my eyes when I read intricate paragraphs in The English Historical Review - 

But I could not write about what I was really thinking - Walsingham's cryptographers, long galleries, the evisceration of Jesuits -

I was loitering in The Shambles, when I came across the shrine of Saint Margaret Clitherow - I stepped into a sad dark place - there were heavy beams above my head - a stark altar was illuminated by electric candles - sombre panelling absorbed my melancholy -

I learned more, later, about the manner of the saint's martyrdom - I felt a sense of shame and helplessness, imagining it -

Yet such cruelty still abounded - men drew up weekly kill lists in bland offices - they wore beautiful suits, not velvet doublets -

Re-entering the world of alleyways in York ...

Whenever I see an alleyway, I am drawn to enter it - I leave the broad pavement, with its innocent pedestrians - I step into a narrow world, one bounded by stone or brick, twisting away from certainty -

I have lost myself in Venice, many times, wandering past silent courts, smelling the dark sinister water in canal basins - I saw crumbling palazzos in the moonlight - I crossed over piazzas, turning around to watch my shadow - I followed sleek cats into blind alleys - I saw a priest, staring down from a brilliantly lit window -

Idling in York, I spied some outposts of that unsettling realm - I dived into the alleyways near The Shambles - there, between high walls of worn brick, I could only hear my own footsteps - I passed by elegant drinking dens - I heard tinkling laughter - I was led into a dark church, like a cave, full of box pews, arranged like traps -

As ever, my head was full of dreams - but too soon I was back upon the crowded pavement -

Being thoughtful in "Lucky Days" ...

We found Lucky Days purely by chance - it was raining - we'd just got off the park and ride bus - we were in sore need of Wi Fi and cappuccinos - we'd heard a canny northern woman complaining about the cost of York's attractions - it'll cost you £10 to get into The Minster - 

Broad pedestrianized precincts were overlooked by severe yet elegant buildings - earlier, I had admired the austere neo classical facade of the Assembly Rooms - sign posts tempted the visitor to seek out museums, galleries and fudge kitchens - the sleek brochure I'd picked up in the tourist centre depicted a marvellous tangle of alleyways, yards and lanes -

There, opposite a church which welcomed the over sixties, was Lucky Days - it had all I look for in an eatery - I was sure that Wilf Self would approve -

We hesitated for less than a moment - soon we were sitting inside - languid jazz was playing on the sound system - capable girls served us a wonderful salad - the decor was spare and clean - Anne scanned the humane editorials in a complimentary Guardian -

We spoke to the owner, who captivated us with his enthusiasm and quirky charm - he darted about, joshing his customers, chivvying the girls - if you rolled a six, on a huge play dice, you only had to pay a pound for your eats -

Later in the afternoon, we returned, drinking our silky cappuccino's upstairs, in an upper room - there were brave abstracts upon the walls - I looked out of the window, at the church -I thought of the elderly people I'd seen inside - I tried to stop thinking about Larkin's poem, The Old Fools - I murmured the beautiful word saudade - 

Anne looked at her Samsung Galaxy - soon we would be driving to South Ferriby -

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 -

Remembering Dave Marris whilst visiting York ...

The park and drive bus dropped us off near York Minster - we'd left the red Peugeot in a car park off the ring road - the vista of stilled cars reminded me of a bleak airstrip - the bus took us first through grey edgelands - gentle rain fell upon the small houses and driveways - industrial units were like abandoned temples - 

Later, we drove past noble Victorian villas - there were glimpses of mysterious gardens, guarded by dense laurel - I kept a sharp look out for the National Railway Museum - there it was - I remembered how Dave Marris had often come here - 

When we got off the bus, I stood for a while, looking up at the pinnacled towers of the Minster - the top of one tower was wreathed in scaffolding - 

I thought about Dave - he'd appointed me Headteacher of Portchester School - he'd been like a father to me, tolerant and hopeful - I hope I justified his faith in me - 

Dave loved travel - he had a shelf of Rough Guides in his house - he'd peered into the Grand Canyon, flown over oceans - but York was a place of special pilgrimage - 

I imagined Dave, hurrying past the Minster, on his way to the Museum - he loved trains - I could see him, in my mind's eye, awestruck in the presence of those beautiful gleaming monsters - 

Dave never went to Peru, as he'd planned - he was very brave when diagnosed with cancer - I still think about him - I can hear, very clearly, his chirruping laugh -

I thought about my own cancer - how some are saved and others die - I stood, under a willow, next to a shattered church, remembering Dave -