The Maltings is a treat: an ancient pub with doors on the ceiling, toilets on the floor, abandoned train tickets lodged in the walls, and more charm than you can shake a stick at.
I was the only one drinking, as my kids are lame. However, Svea did steal a half-pint glass from the neighbouring table. I drank a satisfying Black Sheep Bitter, then we left on the train back to Edinburgh. Until next time, York.