Unchanging - Despite The Changes (26 August 1977)

Along with my son and daughter-in-law, I spent three days in my old stamping ground, Yorkshire, two weeks ago.  It was not a pleasure visit, far from it, but we did manage to have one day in the Dales – or just one dale, to be exact.  There are five or six main dales, leading up to scores of lesser dales, which in turn lead to high ravines down which cascade innumerable ghylls to become becks in the lesser dales and rivers in the main dales.

One of the lesser dales, Littondale, is said to be the setting of tv’s “Emmerdale Farm.”  I used to enjoy that programme until it went into perpetual motion.  There were two or three genuine native voices.

The end came for me when the villagers were supposed to be singing “Auld Lang Syne.”  The record used was bogus, for the singers, whoever they were, sang “We’ll take a cup of kindness,” instead of “We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness.”  So I switched off “Emmerdale Farm” for good forthwith.

To avoid large towns we approached the Dales via Haworth.  This was the moorland village where the Bronte family lived.  I suppose their writings have some literary merit but, rightly or wrongly, I got the impression they were wilting lilies, too prone to moan about surroundings which they considered harsh, but which their humbler fellow villagers took in their stride.  But then, they were not true Yorkshire people.  The youngsters who were to become famous were reared at Thornton, near Bradford, but their father, the Rev Bronte, was Irish and their mother was Cornish.

So into the Dales, and I am pleased to report that Ilkla Mooer, Otis Chevin, Bolton Woods, Skipton, Burnsall, and Grassington are still where they used to be.  Geographically, at any rate.

Administratively, the old shire has been so messed about in the recent local government re-organisation that now you don’t know where you are for sure.

The old shire – greatest breadth 100 miles, greatest length 89 miles, area 6,245 square miles (compared with 7,468 square miles for the whole of Wales) – is no more.  The three Ridings East, West and North – have all gone.  Either Lancashire or the new metropolitan county of Greater Manchester has pinched a bit of the West Riding.

The rest of the shire has been distributed among five new county districts – West Yorkshire, South Yorkshire (both metropolitan counties), North Yorkshire, Cleveland (which also includes part of Co Durham) and Humberside (which also includes a slice of North Lincolnshire).

However, I am glad to say that except for governmental purposes the new divisions are being largely ignored and the old boundary kept very much in being.  Hull and East Riding Rugby Club cling to that name, though the East Riding has disappeared along with Hull into Humberside.

The old boundary also still applies as far as the county cricket club is concerned.  Matches continue to be played at Middlesbrough, even though that is now in Cleveland.  It also still applies for player-qualification.  If you were born at this end of a river bridge you qualify.  If you were born at the wrong end, you don’t, no matter what the new maps and signs say.

Cecil Parkin, Lancashire’s one-time red-haired demon bowler, first bowled for Yorkshire before he was found to have been born at the wrong end.  Tyson, the Whitwood Colliery “pro,” who on his one and only appearance in first-class cricket, scored a century in his first innings and 80 in his second for Yorkshire against Hampshire, was also similarly disqualified.

If you will excuse the pun, I greatly approve this boycott, but I marvel at Yorkshire’s continued mystique after so many seasons of comparatively poor form.  For instance, my son does pretty well at badminton, table tennis, squash and latterly tennis, but say quite bluntly that cricket would have been his game if only we had had the gumption to have him born in Yorkshire instead of Northampton!

Which reminds me, I was talking about the Dales, wasn’t I?  My son’s wife – they married only about two months ago – had hardly ever been north of the Thames in her life, except for three or four trips to Bletchley.  So one of the objects of the day out was to show her England.  She didn’t see much of it, poor lass, for rain fell a good deal of the time and the 2,000-footers were obscured in cloud.

But then, you never can see that country really well from a motor car.  It is not motoring country.  Nor is it mountaineering country.  It is walking country.

Deviating over Blubberhouses, we came upon the tiny village of Appletreewick and there we had a surprise – the publican does not permit smoking on the premises!  A fair number of people seemed to find it an excellent eating place.

But Ned Ramsden’s dripping-fried haddock and chips at Guiseley were as good and filling as ever, if pricier, and brought an interesting day to an enjoyable close.