Day 23: Esrick - York - Scarborough

When we went to bed last night, the car park was so quiet that even the crickets were yawning. Only three trucks were sleeping with us, well separated, as if each one had a different snore. But in the morning… BAM! It looked like someone had shouted "Free breakfast!" and all the cars in the county had come running. Actually, it wasn't free, of course, it was for a stall that's half café, half satanic temptation. They sold coffee and pastries that smelled like heavenly glory. I stayed with my snout glued to the grill for a long time, inhaling sugar with devotion. Dad, as always, nothing. Not a sad little pastry. Not a crumb. And I was willing to share!

We got in the car towards York. It was about ten miles away, but we arrived at the speed of a wounded slug because there was a traffic jam that made you rethink your life. Three-quarters of an hour of the car stopped, moving by pedaling because of roadworks where nobody seemed to be doing anything. Very typical.

Finally, we arrived at York Racecourse, which luckily is a place where parking is easy and free... when there are no races. And there weren't any, although the sign said that the next event was that Saturday. We parked there like kings and started the excursion on foot, crossing a green and wide park. After a while a modern and elegant bridge appeared: the Millennium Bridge, which crosses the river Ouse like a steel ribbon. I crossed it with the dignity of a Roman emperor, although I slipped a little at the end. Nobody saw it. I think.

We continued walking along the river, we crossed Rowntree Park (where I almost ate a flying frisbee by accident) and we arrived at the center. There we saw, from the outside, Clifford's Tower, an old tower on top of a very round hill. They say it's Norman. I didn't see any Normans, only tourists panting as they climbed up. We didn't go up. With my short legs, that hill looked suspiciously like the Himalayas.

Then we went into The Shambles, a street that looks like a medieval movie set... because basically it is. It has crooked houses, old signs, witch and wand shops, and a crowd of tourists who fight to take selfies as if they were going to disappear if they don't. They say it inspired Harry Potter. It inspired me to run away. Too many people, too many shops, too many things that can't be eaten.

Dad held on a little longer than me. I was already half crouching under the crowd, trying not to be stepped on. In the end, we turned towards the cathedral: York Minster. Very gothic, very huge, very impressive. I sat and looked at it for a while. It occurs to me that if I barked in there, with that acoustics, it would echo all the way to Scotland. But they didn't let me in. Anti-canine policy. Unfair, I would say.

Then came a part that I liked better: the wall. We walked a short stretch, just so I could mark territory on something historical, as it should be. But the best part was when we arrived at the museum gardens. There yes. Quiet, beautiful, with flowers, trees, shadows, strange statues and benches where dad sat to cuddle me. There were also squirrels. I didn't catch them. Zero out of three attempts.

We didn't go into the museum. Me for obvious reasons (dog), and dad because he said that with this sun and this breeze, going inside a building was an offense to the weather. So we stayed outside, which was great.

Around three-thirty we went back to the car, walking at a good pace through the park and the river. Dad Edu was already hungry and my stomach had been singing bulerías for an hour. But we didn't eat there. We drove another half hour, cross-country, to a little corner on the side of the road where not even the wind passed. There yes, finally, food! Dad also took an outdoor shower. I looked at him with a face of "don't you dare." He got it.

Then we continued towards Scarborough, but without entering the city. We found a car park to the west, large, spacious, without traffic. There were already three more campers, but well spaced out. Well, except for one. One that had a generator on that roared like an old tractor with a toothache. What a noise! Half of the car park was unusable because of that. I don't know what electricity they needed, did they have a disco inside?

We settled as far away from the scandal as possible, and right after that another van arrived. The gentleman who got out was called Martin and in less than two minutes he was already chatting with dad Edu as if they were old friends from the military. And before I knew it, we were inside his van!

I'm not going to lie to you: that was a disaster. Dark, without windows, all dirty and poorly organized. But Martin was nice, talkative, and quite a good guy. He claimed to be almost 70 years old, but he spoke as if he was 30 and had a radio in his throat. The best part was that he had a box with ham and chicken in the closet. I knew it as soon as I entered. I smelled that ham from outside! I went straight to the closet. He laughed and ended up giving me a couple of pieces. Absolute triumph!

And here comes the curious part of the day. Everyone talks about York ham. They even sell it in countries that don't know where York is! But after walking all day through this city... not a slice. Not a sad little slice. Not a store that said "Authentic ham from here!" What a disappointment. The closest thing was Martin's, which was from the supermarket and, probably, from Denmark. A toponymic scam, let's say.

We were there until 11 o'clock, chatting and sharing stories. Martin talked more than the German the other day, but at least his stories were more entertaining. When our ears were already falling from sleep, we said goodbye and went back to our camper to sleep.

And so the day ended. With York in the paws, ham in the belly, and the distant hum of a generator playing the lullaby.