Liu Yang

**Travel Journal: York, England**  
*Date: April 5, 2025*  

I arrived in York on a grey afternoon, the kind where the sky seems to hold its breath. The city felt like it had been waiting for me—quiet, steady, and full of stories. I checked into a small guesthouse just outside the city walls, and as I walked through the narrow streets, I could almost hear the echoes of the past.

York is one of those places that doesn’t shout its history. It whispers it through cobbled lanes, medieval buildings, and the occasional sound of a church bell. I started my day at the Yorkshire Museum, where I wandered through centuries of artifacts—Roman coins, Viking relics, and even a section on the famous York Minster. It was humbling, really, to see how much of the past still lives here.

Lunch was at a cozy café near the River Ouse. I had a pie and peas, which, while not the most exciting meal, was comfort food at its finest. The owner, a friendly woman with a warm smile, told me about the city’s hidden corners—places I should explore the next day.

The next morning, I made my way to the Minster. Standing in front of it, I felt a strange mix of awe and humility. It’s not just a building; it’s a symbol of resilience, having survived fires, wars, and time itself. I climbed the central tower, and from the top, the city stretched out like a map of old stone and green spaces. It was one of those moments where you realize how small you are, and yet, how connected to something bigger.

In the afternoon, I wandered through the Shambles, a street so perfectly preserved that it feels like stepping into a medieval scene. The shops are quaint, the architecture is stunning, and the air smells faintly of bread and history. I bought a postcard for a friend, and as I wrote, I thought about how rare it is to find a place that feels both timeless and alive.

Evening came slowly, and I found myself sitting in a pub called The Red Lion. The barman poured me a pint of local ale, and I listened to a couple of locals talk about the weather, the football, and the upcoming festivals. There was a sense of community, of people who knew each other by name and by habit.

York isn’t the sort of place that dazzles you with modernity. It doesn’t need to. Its charm lies in its quiet strength, its ability to hold onto the past without being weighed down by it. I left feeling refreshed, not just by the sights, but by the pace of life here—a reminder that sometimes, the best journeys are the ones that don’t rush.

I’ll be back someday. I think York has more stories to tell.