Out of the Woods But Not Over the Hill (24 page)

In the
pâtisserie
the next day, I peered into the display cabinet at the delicious-looking pastries and flans. The apple tart cost 22 euros.

‘
C'est combien?
' I exclaimed again.

The assistant shrugged.

‘Well, I'll tell you this, Christine,' I said, ‘we'll not be eating cakes.'

‘I wish you would enter the holiday spirit,' chided my wife later, as we wandered around the supermarket.

‘What, with these prices?' I grumbled, pointing to a shelf. ‘Even the wine is dearer than in England.'

‘Not everything's dearer,' the English woman behind me vouchsafed. ‘Cotton buds are cheaper in France.'

It is not that Yorkshire folk are parsimonious. It is just that we like value for our money. We are thrifty, prudent, economical people and there is no way we would pay £20 for an apple pie.

A friend told me the story (clearly a tall tale, but worth repeating) of the Yorkshireman who went to place an ‘In memoriam' notice in the
Yorkshire Post
, following the death of his wife. The couple had been happily married for fifty years.

When informed of the cost by the woman at the desk, the man uttered, in true Yorkshire fashion: ‘How much?'

Shaking his head, he reluctantly produced his wallet. ‘I want summat simple,' he explained. ‘My Gladys was a plain, good-hearted and hard-working Yorkshire lass, but she wunt 'ave wanted owt swanky.'

‘Perhaps a small poem,' suggested the woman at the desk.

‘Nay,' said the man, ‘she wunt 'ave wanted anything la-di-da. Just put in: “Gladys Braithwaite's died”.'

‘You need to say when,' he was told by the receptionist taking his order.

‘Do I? Well, put “died 17th March, 2008”. That'll do.'

‘It is usual for the bereaved to add some meaningful phrase,' said the woman. ‘Something tender and heartfelt about the dearly departed.'

The man considered for a moment. ‘Well, put in “Sadly missed”. That'll do,' he said.

‘You can have another four words,' the woman at the desk explained.

‘No, no!' cried the man. ‘She wouldn't 'ave wanted me to splash out.'

‘The words are included in the price,' the woman informed him.

‘Are they?' The man raised an eyebrow. ‘You mean I've paid for 'em.'

‘Yes, indeed,' replied the woman.

‘Well, if I've paid for 'em,' exclaimed the man, ‘I'm 'avin' 'em!'

The obituary was duly printed:

 

Gladys Braithwaite. Died 17th March, 2008.

Sadly missed. Also tractor for sale.

 

Christine and I didn't bring much back from France: a couple of bottles of wine, a wedge of Camembert, some ground coffee and a mug. We did, however, stock up on enough cotton buds to last us for the next forty years.

Conversation in the Country Inn

I don't spend a great deal of time in country inns but, some years ago, I had a memorable evening listening to a Dales' farmer in The Black Bull entertaining his two companions. I was inspecting a school near Settle that week and, having finished my report that evening, went down for a well-deserved pint.

In the corner of the inn, three figures sat around a small round table, two of them listening to the third, who was entertaining them with a story. The speaker was a small wiry individual with rosy red cheeks and large jug ears. His companions were a particularly striking-looking figure with brown leathery farmers' hands, mustard colouring and grey watery eyes sunken in a sepulchral face, and a large woman with an abundant bosom and beehive hair-do.

Like all writers, I am a magpie, a collector of stories and an inveterate eavesdropper and, as I raised the beer to my lips, I took a professional interest in the entertaining conversation. The speaker had the animated voice and timing of a professional comedian.

‘Now, mi Uncle Stan were a character and no mistake,' said the small man. ‘Wa'n't 'e, Beryl?'

‘Aye, 'e were,' replied the woman.

‘Once mi Uncle Stan goes and buys this tup from t'market. Lovely-looking creature it were. Texel. Square as a box, four solid legs, beautiful fleece. Anyroad, he puts it in t'field wi' yows and sits back to watch 'im do what nature intended 'im to do, if you follow mi drift. Well, nowt 'appens. Tup just stands theer, then does a bit a walking, a bit o' grazin', but he's not interested in any o' yows. They stand theer waiting for 'im to mek a move but 'e's just not interested. Well, mi uncle scratches 'is 'ead and dunt know what's up. 'E's nivver seen the like afoor. So, he sends for t'vet. T'vet's puzzled an all. “I shall tell thee what I'll do, Mester Bannister,” he says, “I've got this 'ere Dutch medicine which might just do the trick. Just come on t'market.” And he tells mi Uncle Stan to give t'tup one o' these pills in t'mornin'. Vet gus back on t'Thursday and 'e asks how things are goin'. “Champion,” says mi Uncle Stan. “I've nivver seen the like. Them theer pills certainly did t'trick. Tup's gone mad. Chasing anything that moves. Sex mad 'e is. Nothing's safe in t'field wi' 'im.” We were talking about it in t'pub later that day and I says to mi Uncle Stan, I says, “I wonder what was in them theer pills what t'vet give t'tup.” “I don't know,” says 'e, “but they taste of peppermint.” ' The speaker threw his head back and roared with laughter, and his female companion chuckled. ‘It's a good un, that one, in't it?' he asked.

‘Aye, it is,' said the man with the mustard colouring, his face still as solemn as ever. Then he added, ‘I can't say I'm all that partial to peppermint, tha knaas.'

Man's Best Friend

I was at the Broughton Show last June. This always proves to be a superb day out and, on this occasion, it was held on a beautifully sunny day and was packed with families. At this traditional country show there is a range of activities, displays, events, talks and commentaries: acrobatics, clay shoots, pipe and brass band performances, eagle flying, a flat cap whanging competition, ferret racing, stunt teams, fly tying, lure coursing and dressage. The hilarious Birdman Challenge is not to be missed. There is a cask of ale for the one who can achieve the farthest non-powered flight across the river at Broughton Hall. Competitors fly across the river in the most inventive outfits and on a range of incredible contraptions.

Actually, I managed to see very little of the events for I spent most of the day outside the Dalesman Tent, signing one or two books. Not many people stopped, so I sat in the shade with a pint of traditional Yorkshire Dark Horse Brewery Ale, people watching, an activity I love to do.

At this vantage point, I was able to see the most incredible variety of dogs. There were spaniels and setters, retrievers and terriers, pointers and foxhounds, and some other breeds of the most remarkable appearance. I have never seen such creatures in my life and, as owners passed by with their canine companions, I would stop them and enquire: ‘Tell me, what sort of dog is that?'

Proud owners would be only too pleased to give me details of the dog's breed and provenance.

‘He's a Tibetan Mastiff,' said a large man with a shaven head, tight-fitting vest and sporting an assortment of tattoos. The Hound of the Baskervilles eyed me and growled. ‘Soft as a brush,' he added, before tugging the beast away.

‘Old English Bulldog,' said another man, who bore a remarkable resemblance to his ‘pet'. ‘He'll let anyone in the house, won't you Buster, but just let them try and get out.' The dog looked up at me with grey button eyes, showed a set of bottom teeth like tank traps and strained at the leash. It emitted a deep rumbling growl. ‘Once he gets hold of anything,' the man told me, ‘his teeth lock on and he won't let go.' I crossed my legs.

‘It's a Dandie Dinmont Terrier,' a small lady, wearing a turban and coloured smock, informed me. ‘I did have a Shih Tzu.'

‘Really?' I said.

One of the highlights of the show was the terrier race. A strip of fur was pulled at great speed across the arena, and the terriers were let loose and went in frantic chase. Another popular event was the all-breed race, when any dog could take part. This proved to be absolute mayhem, as great lumbering beasts of every conceivable shape, colour and size galloped around the field, accompanied by hairy little creatures yapping madly at their heels.

My mother was a health visitor and regularly had to visit houses in the poorer parts of Rotherham. At one house, there lived a huge black mongrel called Major and, rumour had it, the creature had been trained by the owner to attack anyone in uniform. Police officers, postmen and rent collectors consequently never made it down the garden path. My mother had to visit the house to look at a baby whom neighbours claimed was undernourished and they thought might be neglected. She was accompanied by a social worker and warned him about the dangerous dog, suggesting he rattle the gate to see if the beast was about before venturing down the path.

‘No need, nurse,' said the man casually. ‘I can handle dogs.'

As she walked nervously behind him as he sauntered up the path, Major appeared from around the back.

‘Be careful,' my mother warned her companion, ready to swing her bag, ‘that dog's vicious.'

‘Don't worry, nurse,' he replied, nonchalantly, ‘I have come across many dogs in my time.'

The creature, the size of a small bear, bounded towards them, teeth bared, tail in the air and ears back. The social worker, whom my mother described as a small, insignificant-looking man with a bald head and large ears, remained perfectly motionless until the dog leapt up. He then promptly punched it on the right hinge of its jaw, knocking the beast out cold. ‘You have to know how to handle dogs,' he told her calmly. ‘I was featherweight boxing champion in the army.' After that, Major was as gentle as a lamb.

A Country Parish

A curate friend of mine has just secured a living as vicar in a small rural parish in North Yorkshire. He is moving from a vibrant parish in the industrial south of the county to an idyllic spot in the Dales and, although much looking forward to the move, he is a little apprehensive. Having spent ten years travelling around the schools in that part of the country, and meeting many a cleric on my travels, I warned my friend that he will find life very different in rural Yorkshire and will need to adjust to the dry wit and the bluntness of his new congregation.

At a charity dinner in Settle, at which I had been asked to speak, I was entertained with the following story of a grizzled farmer.

‘My mother nivver missed a service at t'church,' he told me. ‘Come rain or shine she'd walk all t'way from t'farm up to t'village. One winter, it were thick wi' snow, drifts up to ten foot deep, rooads like icing rinks, wind that 'ud cut thee like a sharpened scythe, but she made it up t'church. Cooarse, vicar were not expectin' anybody and then mi mother turns up. Only one theer, she were, sitting in t'front pew as large as life. Anyroad, vicar asks 'er if 'e should carry on wi' service like, seeing as she were t'only one in t'church. “Look 'ere, vicar,” she tells 'im, “I can't tell thee what tha should do, but if I went out of a morning to feed t'cows and only one on 'em 'ad tekken trouble to turn up, I'd feed it.” He were nonplussed at this, was t'vicar. “Do you know,” he says, “yer right.” And he went ahead with t'service and give one of these long sermons just for mi mother's benefit. He were pretty pleased wi' hissen afterwards. “I hope you felt it were worth the walk through all that snow, Missis Bannister,” he tells 'er. “Look 'ere, vicar,” she replies, “I don't reckon I know all that much about sermons and the like, but if I went out of a mornin'
to feed t'cows and only one 'ad tekken trouble to show up, I'd not be likely to give it t'whole lot of feed.” '

The vicar in the rural community often plays a vital part of the life of the people, not just by being there for the momentous events, like births, marriages and deaths (‘hatches, matches and despatches'), but by taking an active role in a whole range of activities. This frequently includes chairing the governing body at the local school, and taking the assemblies.

One new vicar had started his assembly in the primary school by telling the children how he had walked to the school that morning through the churchyard.

‘And do you know, children,' he told them, ‘I had a big, big surprise this morning as I passed the big oak tree near the church gate. I saw something watching me with large black shiny eyes. There it was, perched in the branches of the tree, grey in colour and with a great bushy tail. And what do you think I'm talking about?' he had asked.

A large boy, with very fair hair and a round red face, replied, ‘I know it's Jesus, vicar, but it sounds like a squirrel to me!'

Of course, vicars' feet are kept firmly on the ground by their wives or husbands, who play important roles in the community too. I recall a certain head teacher of a school near Ripon, married to a vicar, telling me that her husband had a tendency to get rather carried away in the pulpit, and his sermons were sometimes over-long. She found a good way of telling him it was time to wind up. She informed him that when he smelt the Yorkshire pudding it was time for him to stop.