Liu Yang

I've been thinking about the quiet charm of York for a while now. It's one of those places that doesn't shout its beauty, but it whispers it in every cobblestone and archway. I walked through the city on a morning when the light was soft, and the air had that crisp edge that only comes with early autumn.

The Minster stands tall, not just in height but in presence. It feels like it has watched over the city for centuries, and maybe it has. I sat on a bench near the river for a while, just watching people pass by—students in their scarves, couples holding hands, an old man feeding pigeons with a smile that said he'd seen it all.

There’s something about the way the buildings lean into each other, as if they’re sharing secrets. I wandered through the Shambles, where the shops are tucked in tight, and the narrow streets make you feel like you're stepping back in time. A baker’s shop had the scent of fresh bread and cinnamon, and I couldn’t help but stop for a moment, just to breathe it in.

I didn’t rush anything. I let the city guide me, and in return, it offered quiet moments—of reflection, of connection, of simply being. York isn’t loud, but it has a rhythm that stays with you. It’s the kind of place that makes you want to come back, not just to see more, but to feel more.