It’s time to put the Wars of the Roses behind us and visit charming Lancaster - Susan Morrison

We started by exploring bits of Britain we only saw from trains, which explained the choice of York and Durham, as well as the happy days we spent cruising the mean street of Berwick-upon-Tweed and looking for the rough side of Alnmouth. We didn’t find it.

We’ve expanded our horizons and the lucky winner of our largesse this time is Lancaster. No idea why, beyond the fact that we’ve never been. Well, technically I have, having once done a gig for an all female rugby team. I think the show went well, although I do have a strong memory of a bunch of burly lassies attempting to lift my small car for a laugh. Fortunately I wasn’t in it at the time.

Of course, this destination triggered minor unease in my Yorkshire husband's bosom. This, he believed, and still believes, is enemy country. The Houses of Lancaster and York may have buried the hatchet of the Wars of the Roses a long time ago, but nothing keeps a Northerner warm at night better than a burning sense of resentment. I do believe these two great warring counties might be better at bearing and nursing grudges than the Scots and that’s saying something.

Anyway, as I pointed out to him, neither of those two noble families actually won that game of thrones. It was the Tudors who nipped in right handily and swiped the crown, thus setting the scene for endless films about Henry Number 8. Yorkshiremen, I assured him, may now walk the streets of Lancaster without the need for a longbow in defense.

If anything, Lancaster should feel a tad chippy about York, with its beautiful cathedral, twisty medieval streets and those Harry Potter links. Why, they can also boast the largest fossilised human poo in the world, and if that’s not worth a trip to see, then I don’t know what is. Poor Lancaster has a castle, which York doesn’t, but they turned it into a prison, which seems a bit harsh.

It’s a fine wee city in any case, with great Georgian architecture and enough history to keep me happy. Coming from a city teetering on the edge of tourism meltdown, it's a nice contrast to walk about streets that still have the buzz of local life about them. There is a genuine market on Market Street. There are shops in the centre that sell things like screwdrivers, floral bouquets and pants (yes, guess who forgot to pack one vital item?), as opposed to endless retailers of tourist tat.

Mind you, if there is one thing that our Lancastrian cousins really should get the Big Irk over, it's their tap water. Oh by jings, that was a moment when I swilled a gobful of that. I went back and washed out the glass and started again, only to realise, nope, that’s what it tastes like. Metal spoons.

I never really believed our Southern cousins when they complained about the water. I’ve seen English people go distinctly doolally over their first glassful from our taps, but I thought they were just being polite.

Being Scots, we take our lovely soft water for granted. Never more, my friends. Next time I come South I’ll bring my own supply.