“How many photos did you take of railway stations, Dad?” Alexei asks.
“A few.”
“No wonder you were lagging so far behind us in York.”
“It was because I’m old.”
“Always that excuse.”
“It is impressive, though, York station.”
“I suppose so.”
“Though so is the pub. Just like in Sheffield: right in the station.”
“That was handy.”
“They should try doing that in Holland.”
“They do. At least in Amsterdam Centraal.”
“But they don’t sell cask bee. They don’t count.”
“Keep moving the goalposts, Dad.”
“Thank you.”
“I bet you took loads of photos of the beer pumps.”
“Not really. Only a couple.”
“Did you take any photos other than pubs?”
“I took some of the station.”
“Anything else?”
“One or two of the city walls.”
“And that’s it?”
“What else is there in York?”
“I bet the pub photos are dead boring. Just all blokes sitting around”
“Not all of them.”
“Well, that one is.”
“There are only a few like that.”
“I bet the rest are all your beers.”
“Not all of them’”
“You keep saying that.”
“Well, it’s true.”
“What else do you have pictures of, then?”
“The pies we ate in the Maltings.”
“You mean the stew with a lid?”
“You’ve been listening to Andrew, haven’t you? He’s a real pie Nazi.”
“It did taste OK, I suppose.”
He’s not wrong there. It wasn’t a bad pie at all.
“Do you have any photos from the other pub?”
“A few.”
“Old blokes sitting about?”
“Only us lot: me, Dave, Henry and Paul.”
“Beer pumps?”
“Er, maybe one or two.”
“And that’s it, is it?”
“Well, there are some photos of pints, too.”
“How exciting”
“One has yours and Andrew’s pints of cider. Doesn’t that make you thirsty? It does me.”
“For cider?”
“No, for the lovely cask beer in front of it.”
“Always on about that cask crap.”
“The best beer in the world.”
“Yeah, right. Is that everything for York?”
“Just about. There are some more of the York Tap.”
“More beer pumps?”
“Not . . . “
“. . . all of them. You keep claiming that.”
“Only because it’s true.”
“Right”
“I got some nice photos of the stained-glass windows. Look.”
“More old blokes sitting around?”
“Not just old blokes. There are some younger people. Even women.”
“Photos of anything else?”
“Yes. Some trains.”
“What a surprise.”
“Do you want to see them?”
“Do I have to?”
“I bet Andrew would like to see them.”
“Then show them to him.”
“OK. I will do. Andrew!”
“Oh. It’s that type 47 at Newark Northgate.”
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8 comments:
Putting two and two together, it sounds like the reason Andrew doesn't eat is that his father never brings him places with a proper pie. Poor little fellow. He has to scrape what nutrition he can manage from stews with lids.
I'm confused.
One minute you're flying home into the loving arms of the delightful Dolores and the next you're eating a pie in the north of England ( the kid is right by the way, that's a stew with a lid on ) Do you have your own Tardis or something ?
I do wonder what beers you had?
Oscar
Thank God my old man didn't go on and on about beer engines and cask beer...or else I might not have acquired a love of all things cask...
If the kids want to see the sights, here they are:
https://johnlaw1.blogspot.com/
The post after the next will have the pubs.
Ah yes, I'd buy Andrew, the fellow pie nazi, a pint of cider right now! A pie is a meaty mix that is surrounded, completely surrounded, by pastry. Lovely Type 47 at the end. Thank you.
Ron, what's your favorite pub in York? I'll be there in about a month and want to drink where the experts do.
Grayson,
I don't really know York very well. But the York Tap and the Maltings are both pretty good.
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