England ’til I die.

Hubby and I were in God’s own County for a few days, aka Yorkshire. As has become our norm, he mainly does his thing (cycling) and I do mine (hiking, shopping, PhuDding and blogging).

Day one, he went off over the moors, while I legged it up a gill (a narrow valley to you southerners), in and out of thickly wooded areas, because the sun was hot hot hot, and trees are known to provide a bit of shade. We PhuDders know that sort of thing.

When I go walkies, I enjoy my own company to the extreme; crossing paths with other walkers and exchanging pleasantries is an anathema. Therefore, when I caught up with a group of seven 20-somethings on a narrow trail, my heart sank. Luckily, we came to a lane where I could nip past them, but I was heralded: “Hello, are you going up the valley?”

It’s a gill! Given that there was nowhere else to go other than back to Pickering, I had to say yes. “Do you have a map?” I glanced down at the folded OS in my sweaty palm and said yes. “You’d do better with your iphone,” he went on; “the map’s a bit outdated.”

“Me too,” I responded, “I haven’t got an iphone,” which is a lie – I have one but can’t use most of its functions.

“Here let me show you mine,” he persisted. 

I nearly shot back with, “but we’ve only just met.” Instead, I parried with, “Thanks but I’m happy following my nose,” and sped off.

A mile or so later, I came across a sign warning that I was entering a rifle range and should take care. I could indeed hear shots further ahead. Assuming they wouldn’t be shooting near a public right of way, I proceeded with a spring in my step. I soon bumped into a man with a walkie-talkie, an H&S requirement because they were, as it happens, shooting next to the public right of way.

“Hang on there, Flower,” he said to me: and to his walkie-talkie, “There’s a young lady on the trail.” YOUNG lady! What a nice man. What a very nice man.

“Naw thin, Flower, tha cn carry on. Theys stopped shootin for yuh.”

I carried on and found about 30 Red Wallers (God bless ’em, every one) who’d laid down their weapons just for me. Given that I’d interrupted their Sunday male-bonding session, they were really sweet. I got called Flower again, and Love and Petal. I was cautioned not to get sunburned and to enjoy my walk. Leaving their play pen, there was another chap with a walkie-talkie.

“That young lady’s just leavin th’area,” he said to anyone who might be listening. “Mind ’ow yuh go, Luv,” he said to me for good measure.

So old-fashioned. So sexist. So un-woke. So harmless. This is England, 'til I die.

A mile-plus later, I veered left and walked up a steep, winding logging trail to the ridge. Sometime later, it all went pear-shaped. I was in Forestry Commission territory, and their logging activity had obliterated footpaths and signage. I tried to find the alternative trail by lurching straight down the ravine from tree to tree, before deciding that was a bad move and heaved myself back up, tree by tree, until I got back to where the footpath had ended. Guess what. I’d lost my reading glasses. They must have fallen off my head while I was lurching or heaving. Back down I went, almost as far as I’d gone before, until I saw them glinting in the dappled sunlight. “Come to Mummy, you little *£$!S,” I admonished as I put them in my trouser pocket. For some reason I suddenly wondered about tics and snakes but, by likening them to the new intake of Labour Cabinet Ministers, I reasoned they were pathetic rather than threatening and carried on regardless.

Couple of days later, I was for a time doing a lot better, yomping across farmland and the ‘levels’. Trouble was, it was hotter, no shade to be found, and I wasn’t wearing a hat because I don’t like to squash my curls. Sunstroke beckoned. Indeed, heading back, I noticed that it was taking me longer and longer each time to find my location on the map and work out where to go. I managed to hang on by my fingernails until the map told me to continue on the footpath up the hill and past another farmyard, except there was a barrier across the footpath and a big sign warning not to trespass and to keep to the public footpath, or else. But the barrier was blocking the footpath. I checked various landmarks to confirm that if I don’t go that way, I’ll have to add another three miles to my walk and I really had had enough. My water supply was under pressure, as was my bladder. I thought about clambering over the barrier and sticking two fingers up at the farmer if he confronted me, but he might have a gun, and I guessed he wouldn’t be inclined to call me Flower. Or he might set his dogs onto me. 

I hesitated, tempted to call his bluff, film any attack on my iphone (I know how to do that), or charm my way out of any confrontation, but I didn’t feel, look or smell very charming, so decided to compromise and trespass across another farmer’s field to get back to the lane. As it happened, I trespassed over three fields: one was grassy and no big deal; one hosted curious cattle, who trotted up to say hello until I bellowed at them to get the F away, which they did; and one with a huge flock of sheep. Ah, sheep. No problem, except I could hear one charging me from behind, so I spun round and hissed at him. Yes it was a him. He literally sh himself and scarpered. My final hurdle was the gate onto the lane. It was padlocked, and the post moved too much when I tried to climb over, so I had to wriggle under on my stomach, further trauma for my under-pressure bladder.

The next day, while scoffing haddock and chips in Whitby, legs dangling over the 17th-century harbour wall, I reflected on the dangers of a woman on her own (me), not as young or as fit as I once was, with questionable navigation and iphone skills, venturing along remote trails. Am I brave or daft? Lucky, or living on borrowed time? Nothing less than a first-world problem. 

Far more important is that there are still many areas in England where I can lose myself and find Nirvana. Further, the English sense of humour is the funniest on the planet: self-deprecating, phenomenally clever, innovative, innuendo. Even when not meaning to be funny, England has the last laugh, like ‘Whitby’: it means ‘white settlement’ in Old Norse. English fare is the best in the world – haddock and chips, Yorkshire pudding, Cumberland sausage, apple crumble, ale: tasty, plentiful, affordable. Historic English architecture is more exquisite than anywhere else: farm cottages, coastal terraces, abbeys and mansions. Funded by colonialism. That's life. Get one. England’s national religion, Christianity, has spawned the most beautiful music, poetry and teachings. England’s class system is beyond reproach because it’s fluid, forgiving, fortuitous, and favours the brave.

Gorgeous, free, welcoming, tolerant, feisty. And proud. So watch out. This is England.

England ’til I die.