I am from Yorkshire, but I live in London – which makes York a pretty much perfect destination for me. Getting there takes less than two hours on the train and yet, once you arrive, everyone (or nearly everyone) has reassuringly flat vowels. There is the Minster, for evensong, and the walls, for walking; there are good secondhand bookshops (Fossgate Books is brilliant), excellent restaurants (go to Cave du Cochon and have a black pudding macaron with your glass of wine) and a very special shop in High Petergate that deals in Japanese prints. There is, incidentally, also an excellent place to stay, though I think I’m going to keep that address to myself for the moment.
But it’s York’s art gallery that I really love. For one thing, it’s just the right size, neither too big nor too small: the visitor can satisfy all sorts of impulses without ever feeling anxious about what they might miss. For another, its permanent collection is packed with hits. We always look out for Cheyne Walk in Sunshine (1887-88), by the great London impressionist Paul Maitland; if Sally Arnup’s bronze Irish Wolfhound (Burt) was ever not to be on display, I would be quite miserable.
