Apologies for the terrible headline, but no apologies for the views. T and I are just leaving York after the weekend. Lovely city, loud geese, one of Canada’s more underhand gifts to the UK: damn you, Trudeau. It’s the weekend of the last Six Nations rugby, so to be fair the geese along the river Foss are merely competing with the gaggle of Woodford RFC rugby boys on tour (pink shirted, Wetherspoon-loving, dodgy kneed fellas – what’s with the silver trays, guys?).
Anyway, after a wander round the Shambles and YorkMinster and along the 2000 year old wall, and a discussion on the advent of archaeology (“what did people think of relics before archaeology?”), we came back to Foss Street, where we spent the majority of the weekend (I mean this literally) dining at Loch Fyne, a fish restaurant, and a chain, we know, but one with some commendable sustainability polices. Which stretched to printing their menus and marketing material on 100% recycled paper. More on this later. Continue reading ‘It’s all Loching Fyne…’
