York's best not-so-secret (Fountains Abbey) - A Short Travel Writing

A veil of fog, thick enough to render anything further than 100m shrouded in mystery, blankets much of the 1000 year old, pre-medieval site I struggled out of bed to see.

The sun, probably as tired as I am, is spending as much effort to light the small Yorkish valley as any sane entity would on a pre-coffee morning; I can’t help but sympathise.

The low light present gleams upon the frost glazed greenery surrounding the Abbey, and the fresh January air is cold and wet against my skin.

Despite my coat and predilection towards more frigid temperatures, waves of Goosebumps spread across my body in a not-unpleasant ripple of tingles.

As I admire the ruins of what was once a rural religious retreat upon the banks of the river Skell, a smattering of foundations here, a sturdy standing wall there, and the skeleton-ruins of the large abbey behind me, looming in the mist like the beheamoth ribcage of a beast of folklore, I am reminded that this is everything I love about the UK. Tactile history and proper cold winter.