A Ghost Hunt in York

Itinerary

Itinerary

Many years ago I visited York, England. I was on a “if it’s Tuesday it must be Belgium” kind of tour of the British Isle. My traveling companion was my anal retentive sister. She actually made itineraries for each day of our trip. The only thing missing from the schedule was time to go to the bathroom. I’m completely serious. A single line item read something like “12:30 pm -1:30 pm lunch at a pub see attached for choices”. You can just get the sense of how tightly clenched her butt cheeks are just from that single statement. Relax, release, enjoy!

Our first night in York we planned to go on a ghost walking tour at 7:30 pm exactly according to the schedule. I’ve always been fascinated by the supernatural. Oh, the prospects I’d imagined. We had visited some areas in York that day and heard about its medieval history. It’s so freakin’ old that ghosties are everywhere so I was hearing. I really recommend going on a ghost tour if you ever go to York. We had a great tour guide and it made it even more fun.

The tour guide was striking for he actually looked like an honest to God human ghost. He definitely cleared six feet. He wore all black. His skin and hair were startlingly WHITE, seriously white. We’ll call him Casper because I don’t remember his name. He was sexy (I know but he was) and he was very funny. Well, anyway I thought he was cute. Found out later my sister thought so too. She’s such a pain in the ass with stuff like that.

Casper

Casper, the friendly tour guide

Anyway, while dreamy ghostie man was conducting the tour. I noticed a cute a little couple, seriously little couple, maybe four feet tall each. I found out later that they were Welsh. The man was missing a few teeth and either we was seriously intoxicated or he really talked all slurry and blubbery all the time. I thought he and was wife were so adorable because they were so freakin’ happy. I actually thought he and his wife were just walking around with us and didn’t realize they had joined a tour group.

Then, the pivotal part of the tour, when I went from hunting ghosts to hunting for sex. Well, not exactly sex, I just wanted to make out with someone. Is that so terrible? Well, we reached the part of the tour where the unsuspecting tourists are taken down the dark deserted alley. We had just been told of a ghost beast that haunted that particular area and oh yeah, we better watch out. Casper looked at me and grabbed me by my shoulders (“how’s your father!”), ushered me to the beginning of the line and declared, “Colonists first!” See, at the beginning of the tour, he had asked us where we were from and Long Island, New York was my response. He gave me that look like I’m gonna see you naked later and I was titillated to say the least. He then directed my sister behind me. He might have given her that same look. Cheeky, Casper!

Anyway, I was all like “What is gonna happen, now?”. Little did I know as the group was following my sister and I, the tour guide went down a parallel alley and was hiding on the stairs behind a dumpster in the area where the two allies intersected. The exact same spot I was walking towards. So, I finally reached the intersection. I heard a noise and looked to my left and there was Casper jumping from the stairs toward me and my sister. I ran like hell screaming at the top of my lungs the entire way through the rest of the alley. Casper, the friendly ghost, gave chase.

I turned my head round at one point during the chase and in manner of a “Bugs Bunny” cartoon looked directly into Casper’s eyes and he started to scream at me and flail his arms about. I then screamed at him and turned my head to look where I was going so as not to get run over by cars as I was headed toward the street. I screamed bloody murder as I ran out onto the actual street. I might have jumped over a car. I can’t be sure. Somehow, I was on a sidewalk still sprinting. But, as I was scared I also knew this wasn’t a ghost it was my tour guide but my natural reaction to screaming people chasing me is to run like hell.

Anyway he tore ass to catch up to me and grabbed me and hugged me like in a restraining manner right there in the middle of the sidewalk. I liked it. I felt tingly all over, even in the loins. Once I acknowledged I was caught, I noticed he was shaking. I realized after a minute that he was laughing uncontrollably but he was still hugging me tightly (Yeah!). I think he did not want me to strike him for I surely would have if he let me go. I might have still been screaming too I can’t remember. After a few moments as he was able to catch his breath, he looked at me and told me that I made his whole career as a tour guide. He had dreamt of a reaction like that. My brain was scrambled I really wanted to keep hugging him but he had to go back to work.

The Welsh man approached me and laughed heartily and said something utterly incoherent. I started laughing hysterically because of the whole heightened emotion thing. It was a really funny sight. I can just imagine what it looked like. I was walking around through the rest of the tour in a kind of daze wondering if he would ask me to go out for a drink. How could he not? After all, he wants to see me naked.

Well, the tour was over. I went up to thank him and his expression was definitely clothed in a see ya around sort of wink. What? How disappointing! I was really feeling that one too. Don’t touch me if you’re not gonna kiss me, stinkin’ tease. So what did I do with all that sexual tension that needed to be released. Disappointed and exhilarated, I and my sister went to the pub that Georgie Porgy supposedly inhabits. On the tour, we heard his ghost tickles ladies in the powder room. I didn’t get lucky with Georgie Porgy either. He wasn’t feeling me and I didn’t feel him.

da stooges

Larry, Mo, and Curly

After my longest bathroom visit ever, my sister and I then had drinks with three gentlemen from York. None of them were really appealing to me. Mostly because they were too serious and drunk off their ass, a bad combination. I was picking which one I would make out with when one of them asked me why Long Island was called Long Island. So, I replied, “Cuz it’s long and it’s an island.” Well that was greeted with disgust and not guffaw as I anticipated. One of them, Mo I think, said, “You yanks know nothin’ of your own ‘istory, do you. C’mon now don’t you want to know the derivation of its name.” I looked the man in the eyes and said, “Dude, I was gonna make out with you but now I’m leaving.” I didn’t really say that. That would have been cool if I did. I think I just said, “No, not really.” I gave my sister the “let’s blow this popsicle stand” look. She returned the look. After all it was getting close to midnight and we needed to be asleep by 12:30 am according to the itinerary.

I was feeling a little tipsy. On the drive back to our hotel, I was romanticizing my prospects for the next day. After all my name is Catherine and we would be visiting the Moors in the morning. Those prospects seem much better than Casper, Georgie Porgy and the three stooges from York combined. Doesn’t Heathcliff just hang out in the Moors like all the time looking for someone named Catherine? Although, I have to say Heathcliff scares hell out of me. He really needs to mellow a bit but it could be fun for a day. Anyway, the Moors were beautiful but alas no Heathcliff just a smug ass goat on the hillside. Even without any romantic prospects or evidence of the supernatural, I still managed to have a lot of fun on my trip. Cheers!

Related: Poem, “Feet in London

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Feet in London

Crossing over marbled sentiments for the ancient dead in Westminster Abbey.

In search of tea at the Orangery.

Carrying me,
To every darkened pub and doorway.

Propelled to Covent Garden Market, the entertainer’s opened cage,
bearing witness to the bravado of an opera singer hoping for change.

Swelling into the pavement, a Piccadilly dalliance.

Poised in reverence, before the ringing steps to St. Paul’s entrance

State of rest in theater stalls,

Cross legged in the tube,

And dangling from the fountains of Trafalgar;
THERE they get to hover.

Tired, blistered, pulsating, yet they can’t stop moving to discover.

* I wrote this poem quite a few years ago, after a trip I took to England.