Yorkshire Fields

I loved Yorkshire.
Its small villages, their stone churches and teahouses.
Sipping strong tea out of my floral cup while savoring cream and jam scones on a lace tablecloth.
I loved the tiny towns that still had red telephone booths as if to assert their inclusion in England.
I loved driving - or really being driven as I never mastered driving on the left and no one trusted me with a car anyway - through green landscapes and sea fronts.
Eating over-salted fish and chips with the tiniest and most useless wooden fork while being watched by Whitby’s immortal Dracula.
I loved the locals hiding in the village pub.
Yorkshire folk get down and dirty.
They fix their own cars and build their own houses and farm their own land.
They are creators, inventors and descendants of ingenuity.
In Yorkshire, you go the shop in wellies and oil-stained top and no one gives a shit.
Men wear flat caps.
Women shouldn’t wear such tight clothing but who really cares. They don’t.
In winter, Yorkshire men wear t-shirts because there’s no difference from the summer weather. All year round is just bloody cold.
Shooting pheasants is a daily activity and bumping one a daily occurrence.
Kids get to be kids and scrape knees once in a while.
Yorkshire folk have a language to themselves and they’re proud of it.
They are a people of endless generosity and undecipherable expressions.

And rather importantly, in Yorkshire they have Yorkshire pudding and that’s pretty grand.


The Writer

I write stuff for fun, if it was for a living I would be homeless.

Find out more about me, Stefanie, here.


Hey man I never asked for your name, I'm just gonna call you Sessle. Drunk Irishman