In the cafe in Rowntree park, it’s the mothers that scream. Bottles of warm milk rattle together with every shout of, “BRING THE DETTOL!” Sweaty waitresses scream at me over the cacophony of baby chat, (“You’re boobs are leaking again Doris… NIPPLES”) and try to explain that the cafe is secretly a library, that brings books to those unaccustomed to reading… but very accustomed to an early morning croissant. Ugly American women start battle with the baby noises, and discuss how mothers should stay in darkened rooms until their children are 18, so as not to disturb the rest of the (decent) population who haven’t popped their fingers into a cat’s rectum since 1918.
I am surrounded by 25 toddlers, having an asthma attack. Sort of. I’m very out of breath and bleary red spots are dancing in-between the flaky tufts of eczema/hair on the heads of children. I ran here. It was a long way. I want cake. Sadly, it’s only 10am, so I settle for toasted bun and tea, and then after a million years of asking mums if they’re leaving, or just jumping to their feat because someone sneezed down their neck, we sit outside and mash our faces into our breakfast faster than you can have a poo on the floor. It’s very cold outside, but our buns are lovely, and from the terrace, with the lovely view over Rowntree park, my friend and I pick through the outdoor library of books (which includes the BRILLIANT, Living life the Essex Way: Sam Fairer’s Towie) and our hair, wet with sweat, freezes over our earlobes and blocks out the sound of mother’s panicking.
I don’t mind the sound of babies crying. Better disturbing morning runners who should be working, than driving their mums to depression after 5 years staring at the same face, in the same high chair in the same kitchen. But I do really quite mind the angry American women, who are busy insulting every other customer in there besides us, and the fact that I’m sitting outside… and mostly that my friend has stolen Living life the Essex Way from me.
That said, it’s really quite a nice place. The other time we ran here we were given cards for free tea, and spent the morning reading the papers, instead of running (excellent). It’s also the perfect stopping point, half way through our run, and the waitresses all look like they really, really need a break from mopping up chocolate flavoured vomit, so it’s only right that I’m kind. I also love being surrounded by books. I’ve no idea if the cafe works as a library, or has introduced a single person who doesn’t read to the magical world of Sam Faier, but it makes for a damn nice place to spend half an hour. If I was a mum, there is literally no where I would rather watch my children lick the floor.
On that note, I recommend you all make the trip down the river (which is beautiful, I’m so grateful for my friend to introducing me to this run), go to the cafe and drink tea. Unless you hate children, in which case, you should probably hit the playground up with style… I don’t believe there are any children left in York that aren’t in the Rowntree Park Reading Cafe.
Tea Pots: Don’t know.
Scones and other available cakes: a solid 8. Those toasted buns stayed warm after a good half hour of searching for somewhere to sit
Kitchness: 5. It’s a pretty kitch little hideout.
Total awesomeness: 7. I’ll definitely be coming back. Hopefully every time I run, ever, for the rest of my life.
(p.s: it should probably be noted that my friends lasting comment on this cafe was, “it’s not meant to be a cresh.” We still disagree over this point.)