Cittie Of Yorke 22 High Holborn London Wc1v 6bn

You know how some pubs feel like they were assembled from a flat-pack and a prayer? The Cittie of Yorke at 22 High Holborn is the polar opposite. It’s a glorious, boozy cathedral where time goes to have a nap, and everyone is welcome to join it. Walking through that door is less like entering a bar and more like stepping into a Harry Potter fever dream, but with better beer and fewer house elves.

Let’s start with the ceiling situation

The main bar is a cavernous hall with a vaulted ceiling that looks like it was borrowed from a medieval banquet—because it was. Seriously, the original structure dates back to the 15th century, though the current pub was rebuilt in 1920. It’s so tall you could host a friendly game of indoor badminton, provided everyone’s drunk enough to not hit a chandelier.

But let’s be clear: this isn’t some stuffy museum. The massive fireplace at the end of the room could roast a whole sheep, and the wooden pew-like booths are perfect for hiding from your responsibilities. You half expect a knight in rusty armor to plop down next to you and complain about the price of mead.

That famous beer-cellar-turned-pub trick

Now, a weird fact that’ll make you sound terribly clever at dinner parties: directly below this pub is a cave. A literal, ancient cave that was once used to store beer barrels. Today, it’s part of the bar, and you can drink ale in a literal cauldron-shaped leather chamber. No, I am not joking. They serve your pint in actual tankards that look like they’d be at home in a Vikings’ drinking contest.

And that leather? It’s from the old days when they’d use it to filter sediment from stout. So you’re basically sitting inside history’s weirdest strainer. Glorious.

The ghost stories (because obviously)

Every self-respecting old London pub has a ghost, and the Cittie of Yorke doesn’t disappoint. Legend says a woman in grey haunts the ladies’ loo, which is either terrifying or a very convenient excuse for why the paper towels are always wet. Some regulars swear they’ve seen her, but I suspect it’s just a reflection after one too many of their legendary house ales.

Speaking of ale, they brew their own beer on the premises. The “Yorke Ale” is a dark, malty treasure that tastes like a hug from a very old, very English uncle. It’s so good you’ll want to bottle it and drink it over your morning cereal—don’t, that’s a terrible idea, but I admire the ambition.

Why the name sounds like a typo

The name “Cittie of Yorke” isn’t a spelling mistake—it’s old English for “City of York.” The pub was originally a coaching inn for travelers heading to York, which is about 200 miles north. So, technically, this pub is a gateway to another city. Which explains the mysterious urge to book a train ticket after your second pint.

It’s been a pub since at least 1430, making it older than most countries. It predates the printing press, the discovery of America, and—I checked—the invention of the sandwich. That’s right: this pub was pouring pints before anyone thought to put meat between two slices of bread. Priorities.

Survival skills of this wooden behemoth

The Cittie of Yorke has survived the Great Fire of London (1666), the Blitz (1940s), and—most impressively—the 1980s fashion for neon-lit nightclubs. It’s a survivor. The woodwork is dark and ancient-looking, not because a designer chose it, but because actual centuries of spilled beer and pipe smoke have stained it that way. You can taste the history in the air, and no, that’s not mold—it’s atmosphere.

You want surprising facts? Fine: during WWII, the pub’s cellar was used as an air-raid shelter. Locals would sit down there, sipping stout, while bombs fell on Holborn. That’s the British spirit: “The Nazis are dropping explosives? Let’s have another round of bitter.”

How to act like you belong there

First, don’t order a cocktail. This is a real ale house, and the bartenders will look at you like you asked for a smoothie. Second, settle into one of the high-backed wooden booths (the ones that are practically thrones). Third, order a pork pie and a pint of their “Old Burton” ale. Then just sit. Marvel at the giant iron lanterns. Listen to the chatter of locals arguing about football or the weather. You’ve arrived.

Is it a tourist trap? A little—but only because it’s so ridiculously, wonderfully authentic. You’ll see people taking photos of the fireplace, the lanterns, the pews. That’s fine. Just don’t forget to drink. The beer is the star, not the Instagram.

In short, the Cittie of Yorke is a warm, boozy, time-warp where the floors are uneven, the ghosts are friendly, and your ale is served in a vessel that could double as a weapon. Go. Get a little lost. And remember: the ceiling is not actually going to collapse on you, even if you’ve had three pints of the stout. Probably.