A Grand time in the Florence of the north
we last visited this most historic of English cities, and it appears to be more popular than ever.
Is there a big meeting at the racecourse? Is the food market pulling in people from far and wide or is there some other big event on that we haven’t heard about?
“No,” replies our cheerful host, “it’s just York”.
Perhaps we shouldn’t be surprised.
It could be that we take this medieval gem for granted with it being just an hour and half down the road, but what is York if not the north’s answer to Florence or Rome?
The towering 12th century York Minster is surely a strong candidate for the finest man-made English structure north of the M25.
Just across its courtyard you can sup a pint of ale in the birthplace of Guy Fawkes – we try and fail to name a Briton with a more commonly-used name - and gaze out over the church that christened him.
And if there is another street in the UK that’s retained its twisted medieval ambience as well as the Shambles, I’m yet to visit it.
A stroll around York’s compact centre is a fascinating experience.
We learn that the Roman Constantine was anointed emperor near the future site of the Minster prior to changing the history of mankind forever by converting to Christianity.
We explore the Norman built castle known as Clifford’s Tower, the scene of a terrible massacre in 1190 when 150 local Jews were killed in a pogrom, most of them committing suicide to avoid falling into the hands of the baying mob.
And we discover the less than salubrious history of Grape Lane, given a medieval PR makeover when the first ‘a’ tactfully replaced the ‘o’ of its former, more literal title.
Our concierge assures us that its previous name was even worse but declines to speak it in the presence of my wife.
But there is only so much history you can soak up before even the most ardent buff falls weary.
Thankfully there are plenty of other things to do in York.
Cosy traditional pubs, swanky gin bars, chocolatiers and fascinating fusty old curiosity shops all compete for the tourist pound.
I’m not a huge fan of tea parlours but the queue outside Betty’s tells me there is something good going on in there, rivalled as it is only by the line of people queuing for the town’s latest sensation, a roast dinner in a Yorkshire pudding wrap.
Coinciding with our visit, is a fabulous market filling the city’s central streets with 40 street food stalls and 80 produce stands, and filing the air with exotic smells.
And after all that there’s only one thing to do - head back to the hotel to relax.
The Grand is the only five star hotel in Yorkshire, boasting two restaurants, and a bar and whisky lounge offering 150 still and sparkling wines, 40 cocktails, 50 types of gin and 100 bottles of whisky.
But we’ll get to all that later. For now, the only thing that matters to us is that it’s got a spa.
Buried deep into the bowels of this magnificent five storey building, built to house the wealthy and powerful North Eastern Railway company, it’s the perfect antidote to a day on the tourist trail.
We head through the thick, reinforced doors of the former vaults that housed the railway men’s millions below ground, to treat our tired limbs to a soothing session in this calm and luxurious oasis, offering two hot rooms, a sunken whirlpool and 14 metre pool.
When it was converted to a hotel in 2010, the old building’s opulence was restored and it became a magnet for the city’s most well-heeled visitors.
Our suite – the Master Suite, no less – is stunning, beautifully decorated, with its own lounge and bedroom, boasting views from across the mighty walls of the town, two large flat-screen TVs, a spare toilet and a bathroom (almost) the size of a school gym.
The friendly concierge knows we are keen to get down to dinner, but enquires whether we have time for a complementary glass of prosecco as he delivers the bags. We somehow find the time.
The Grand has two restaurants and we choose The Rise, which offers a range of tapas style plates to mix and match.
First up is a delicious braised Yorkshire lamb shoulder, capers and pea guacamole.
Then it’s a bit of a test for my wife, a relapsed pescatarian no less, but she bravely puts away the steak tartare with sour dough and ‘horseradish emulsion’ like someone who has eaten raw meat all her life. Venison, ox cheek, grilled tiger prawns and even octopus follows.
If there’s one thing The Rise teaches me it is that no dessert should be served without a pairing cocktail, so my wife’s Yorkshire Cheese Platter comes with a delightful Port Manhattan, while my Buttermilk Pannacotta Yorkshire Strawberries and Sorbet are complemented by a Sweet Dream G&T.