When they say that Thirsk is tiny, believe them.
You can make only one circular walk around the central part of the town (which in this case means “the whole town”), including a brisk stroll by the river Cod Beck, and it takes only 15 minutes or so: you would be passing by a number of cosy looking shop displays with cashmere jumpers, wellies, pork pies and some Thirsk stationery you wouldn’t find anywhere else (say, portraits of James Harriot, a famous local vet and the writer, whose real name was James Wight).
Yarnbombing is the main peculiarity that makes those few streets you are crossing in Thirsk so distinctive: each little shop has its own yarnbombing basket that features this one thing the place produces—a crate of fish for a fishmonger, a palette, paints and crocheted pictures for the local art gallery and so on.
We managed to visit St Mary’s Church (usually it’s closed for visits and open for a few services only): the vicar was kind enough and let us in after the service was over, and we enjoyed the Gothic interiors of the 15th century. As we didn’t want to abuse the vicar’s hospitality, I didn’t take any photos: not too bad as I remember the church design much more vividly without distractions with snapping pictures.
The Golden Fleece, our hotel (although, given how it looks inside, I’d rather call it an Inn) is full of old daguerreotypes on the staircase (they are genuine as you can see Victorians wandering around the street, and some of them are transparent, which means that the camera’s exposure was way too long: I bet, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle would’ve found another explanation), horserace memorabilia (Thirsk racecourse is one of the most prominent in Yorkshire) and sheep figurines—big and small, they are everywhere, and when the lights are off they look alive.
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