It started as one of Patricia’s bright ideas. “Let’s go to Malton for the weekend,” she said, folding the map like a woman planning a small invasion. “We’ll eat somewhere nice and poke around the food market. Might be good to get out.”
I should’ve known we were doomed when she packed the good umbrella.
We left Pickering under skies the colour of damp washing. By the time we hit the roundabout outside Norton, it was biblical. Wipers struggling. Sheep looking offended. Water coming in sideways like it had personal beef.
Still, Patricia was in full enthusiasm mode, talking about local produce and “artisan chutneys” like we were headed for Provence, not a North Yorkshire car park with potholes big enough to trap a Fiat. I muttered something about needing new windscreen wipers and she gave me that look like I’d just farted in a monastery.
By the time we parked—half-floating—the rain was bouncing so hard it looked like it was trying to get back up again. I stepped out and immediately felt my socks give up. Wet sock rage is real. If the French had invented guillotines over wet socks, I’d have understood.
We tried to make a go of it. Walked to the market, which was bravely open, though most of the stalls had tarpaulins sagging like they’d been punched in the gut. Bought some fudge, not because we wanted it, but because the woman had a face like thunder and we were scared. Patricia found a jar of something called “wild garlic relish” and clutched it like treasure. I said it looked like pond scrapings. She ignored me. Classic stalemate.
Then her umbrella gave up. Full collapse. One minute she’s twirling it like Mary Poppins, the next it’s inside-out, speared on a bollard, and she’s yelling “OH FOR GOD’S SAKE JAMES.” Like I designed the thing.
We retreated into a café that smelled faintly of radiator and gravy. It had mismatched chairs and a waitress who said “sit anywhere love” without looking up from her crossword. The tea came in those giant thick mugs that could stop a bullet. Patricia tried to dry her glasses on a napkin, gave up, and sighed with theatrical volume.
“I just wanted one nice day,” she said, staring at a drip running down the window.
“You married me. That was your first mistake,” I replied, then immediately ducked behind the sugar bowl.
After the tea, and a pudding that was weirdly sensational (something sticky with dates and maybe bourbon?), we took refuge in the Malton museum. I say refuge. It was more like a punishment. The heating was on what I’d call “funeral home” setting and the exhibits included a boot, a broken teapot, and a long timeline of wheat.
But it was dry. And I think we actually stopped bickering for twenty full minutes. A new record.
Eventually we gave up and drove home through sheets of rain so thick the car felt like a submarine. Patricia nodded off. I grumbled at the radio. Malton faded in the rearview like a wet dream you regret admitting to.
Did we enjoy it? Sort of. Would we do it again? Probably. Because that’s the thing about Yorkshire. Even when it drowns you, you love it a bit. Like an old uncle who drinks too much and smells like mothballs, but still turns up with biscuits.
Next time we’ll check the forecast. But we’ll still ignore it.
