“Two Guests, Three Tours, and One Very Good Boy”

Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you end up with just one or two people on a tour. The previous tour had 45; the next? A mighty two. It happens! So, there I was—three walking tours already under my belt that day, and after the final daylight one, a three-hour wait until the 6:30pm Forbidden Chronicle Tour. Just me, one adult, and one child booked in.

I used the time wisely—grabbed a cuppa, sank into a good book, and relaxed in one of York’s many charming tea shops. Bliss.

By 6:00pm, I was at the start location: Clifford’s Tower. The sun was still shining, the air was warm, and romance was in bloom—an elderly couple sat nearby holding hands like teenagers, proving true love can survive beyond TikTok.

I checked my phone. Yep, still two booked. All set.

But as the clock ticked on—6:10… 6:15… 6:30—I was still the only one there. No child. No adult. Just me and the romantic pensioners.

I waited another 15 minutes, checked my phone again (silent), and scanned the booking. No contact number to call. By 6:45, I figured: well, I’ve got an hour until my bus home, may as well do the tour for myself. It was a brand-new script and route, after all, and practice makes polished.

So off I went, narrating to the wind.

At 6:55, my phone suddenly rang. “Hi, I booked a tour and no guide turned up! We got here early, waited, walked around—no sign of anyone!”

I blinked. No guide? I’d been stood at the start for 45 minutes watching clouds, birds, and lovers! I asked where they were. "Clifford's Tower,” they said. “Been here since 6:20."

Cue confusion. I apologised profusely and said I’d head right back—I was nearby. I mentioned (perhaps several times) that I hadn’t seen an adult with a child.

Back at the tower, the old couple were gone. Just one woman stood there.

“Hi, are you the guide?”

“I am,” I smiled. “But I didn’t see anyone with a child earlier—sorry for the mix-up!”

We laughed. She was lovely about it.

“Right then,” I said cheerfully, “let’s get your little one and we’ll start.”

She glanced down at the end of a lead.
“Oh, I don’t have a child. My daughter’s 19—she’s home with a cold. I brought Bertie.”

On the end of the lead: one majestic, cheerful cocker spaniel.

I blinked.
She had booked the tour—for herself and her dog.

Now, if you’ve worked in hospitality or anything remotely customer-facing, you’ll know there are moments where politeness is far more useful than homicide.



So I smiled, nodded, and mentally hit my head against the imaginary brick wall of York’s ancient city. I’d been scanning the horizon for a child, not a spaniel. No wonder I hadn’t spotted them.

But we carried on—and let me tell you, I delivered that tour to perfection. Adrenaline is a marvellous thing. Bertie was a model guest (didn’t interrupt once), and the whole evening turned out to be one of those bizarre, brilliant memories I’ll never forget.

God bless Bertie the Cocker Spaniel. And long live the strange, lovely surprises this job throws at me.

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