Voyage into the wild north

Refuge from the winter gloom isn't too far away, thankfully.

Refuge from the winter gloom isn’t too far away, thankfully.

London’s streets paved with gold and sophisticated dwellers were left behind as the 11:00 a.m. Kings Cross to Edinburgh train pulled out of the station and gathered steam heading into the misty north.

My stop was about half way up the train line at the ancient city of York,  England’s number one destination for hen parties (apparently), surrounded by Roman walls and, more importantly, home to Bettys Tea Rooms.

Across the wind- and rain-swept land Christmas lights blinked defiantly against the dank and gloomy cold descending.

I poured a Belgium beer (a “De Verboden Vrucht” to be exact) and settled on the sofa to watch the first episode in the new series of “The Hour“, depicting what appears a golden age of journalism: when it mattered and, rather handily, you got paid for it.

But hell, it’s Christmas–no time for melancholy stewing. Bring on the beer (Belgium, ideally) and bring on the cheer.

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