Old meets new in York, perhaps more than in any other city in England.
Bus routes weave around ancient city walls, the quaint marketplace thrives just a short distance from a designer outlet mall, and supermarkets jostle for space along a riverbank marked with bridges, stone buildings, signposts to history.
In the middle of the city center, there’s a grassy hill. It looks as if it’s been uprooted from the countryside and transplanted into the heart of a bustling city. Visitors walk across it, stare up at the gray-stoned tower at the peak. Some pause by a brass plaque set in the grass, near the steps to the tower.
It’s a memorial, something about Jews. The date is 1190. Dear me, that’s a long time ago, they say, shaking their heads. Then they move on.
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