I arrived at the University of York in 2013 armed with a peace lily. It died within a week. Inside the city’s ancient walls, I spent three years here doing what I thought every student did, drinking 2-for-£5 vodkas at Stone Roses Bar before stumbling into the institution that was The Willow Disco, then stumbling out hours later. Thankfully for my future self, this Cantonese restaurant-cum-club closed down before my third year.

More than a decade later I’m back to fill in the blanks, on a mission to discover the medieval wonders that make this 2,000-year-old Roman City one of the UK’s top places to visit. My after-dark antics may have made me something of a local celebrity here back in the day, but I wasn’t expecting the red carpet treatment. Yet that’s what I got at The Grand, an elegant Grade-II listed mansion with a spa and restaurant, widely regarded as the best hotel in the city.

I’ve slept in Travelodges and Premier Inns aplenty, but the five-star experience is new to me. On the steps to the entrance, guests are greeted by a golden plaque bearing a top hat perched on a smile. The commitment to detail is real, for through the front door are concierges, also wearing top hats. The Grand has 207 rooms of varying luxury — the more you pay, the more space you get. It’s both grand and cosy, much like Hogwarts at Christmas.

Classic double rooms go from £215 per night in February, while more spacious executive doubles jump to £255. The premium option are the Heritage Suites, which are even more spacious. The classic double has plenty of room though, and with a location right in the middle of York, you likely won’t spend too much time in the room anyway. My first thought is that York seems tiny. Its Roman wall erected in 71AD (said to be the oldest in England) encircles the city like a fortress, but doesn’t seem that intimidating. A 3.4km walk will take you the whole way round.

I used to scoff at tourists with their ugly practical shoes and rucksacks with hundreds of individual pockets, but now I’m one of them. My walk down memory lane begins in the narrow passageways of The Shambles, the oldest part of town believed to be the inspiration for Diagon Alley in Harry Potter. Overhanging buildings loom haphazardly above the heads of scurrying locals and gawking visitors, in a scene that epitomises the ancient character of York.

Later, weary after meticulously studying every item in the mighty Antiques Centre, I head for my favourite pub. The Red Lion is a 16th-century black-beamed boozer tucked away from the chaos. It’s quintessential York, a city once rumoured to have a pub for every day of the year. Contrary to popular belief, the maximum number of licenses issued in the city was 263, in 1663. Today, according to WhatPub, there 235 premises are open for business.

My cheeks flush as the heat of the roaring fire collides with my face, still tingling from the cold as I enter. I wonder what conversations people would have had when this place first opened; probably about the weather. Buzzing with the delight of a well-formed plan, I silently toast to my 19-year-old self for having impeccable taste in pubs. Strolling back into the thick of it along Fossgate, my favourite street with views up to the towering York Minster, one of the most beautiful Gothic cathedrals in the world. It’s got all the best restaurants too, from Ambiente Tapas to El Paradiso.

If you’re looking for good grub, you’re in the right place. My university self would have hated 28-year-old me, I think as I walk across the threshold of one of York’s high tea establishments. Betty’s Tea Rooms is the most popular and famous choice for high tea in the city, but I feel a smugness in turning my back on an hour-long queue in favour of Earl Grey tearooms. Try the lemon drizzle cake, you’ll keep coming back for more.

All those years ago, for my graduation meal, we went to El Paradiso, a low-key Italian restaurant-cafe with star-quality food. A decade later, it did not disappoint. It’s the kind of place where you definitely cannot ask for mayonnaise with pizza, but they would probably let you dance on the bar. York is known for its drinking culture. A pint will only set you back a fiver; just ask the many stag and hen dos that wobble along the cobbles every weekend.

This could almost be insulting to York’s rich history, until you remember that the Vikings, with their big horns of mead, were almost definitely worse. Today it’s mainly baby-faced students awkwardly tripping up after one too many pints, cackling at mediocre jokes and talking in hushed tones about subjects that seem very important to them. It’s like holding up a mirror to my former self. Being an adult means forgoing the nightlife — especially with the allure of aplush hotel bed. I cringe a bit at the memories now, but I can also look back with fondness.