What Rick Steves doesn't tell you

Here's what Rick Steves tells you about York: it's a lovely English city, the capital of the north, filled with colorful history involving Romans, Anglo-Saxons, Vikings, kings, princes, derring-do, derring-don't, blood, guts, etc.

Here's what Rick Steves doesn't tell you: on Saturdays, York turns into something akin to the Jersey Shore. That is, people pour into the city to troll the streets of the old walled city to shop, to drink, to celebrate, to drink and – oh yeah, did I mention that there's a lot of drinking going on?

First here are the stag and hen parties. I'll not say much about the stag parties in that they consist of a bunch of rowdy young guys, who maintain their balance by holding on to drink glasses and yelling (volume and comprehensibility is directly proportional to the of drinks they've sucked down). In other words, they're generally indistinguishable from most of the rest of the crowd in the city.

A York hen party

Then there are the hen parties. This is a trip! According to Helen Mildner, owner of the Farthings B&B where we stayed (highly recommended, by the way), young bachelorettes about to pack it in descend from all over northern England on the weekend. Unlike their male counterparts, the ladies are pretty easy to spot. In addition to being about as rowdy as the men, they sport t-shirts, sashes, blinking headgear and other frou-frou identifying the party they're with. The guests of honor can be identified by their slightly off-kilter bridal veils and eyes so glazed it's a wonder they can see where they're going. Sometimes, the dress is casual; in some parties, the women are dressed to kill. The only ones they're likely to kill, however, are themselves, in that many are trying to navigate the cobblestoned streets in high heels, with their heads full of raging sky, no less. By the end of the night, many of them are carrying those shoes.

All of this explains my observation yesterday about the streets of York being lined with pubs.

Adding to the revelry yesterday is the fact that the first racing meet of the season began this weekend. After the races, attendees dress up and head for bars, parties and other revelry. Judy and I encountered a virtual stampede of men and women –many already well-lubricated -- dressed in suits, gowns, tuxedoes, kilts, etc. while trying to make our way back to The Farthings for an hour of rest.

Beyond the people watching, Judy and I managed to get to York's Castle Museum, the York Brewery (let no brewery go unvisited!) and a performance of The Crucible at the Royal York Theater. All were excellent.

And so, we're aboard a train, headed back to London, where we'll catch a train to Brussels. The free-range travelers forge on.