Friday's Flashback: On the Road in Yorkshire

The county of Yorkshire was probably the first county in England I ever learned of.  Way back in 1990 my grandmother gave me a beautiful copy of The Secret Garden.  There I became familiar with the Yorkshire moors and speaking in "broad Yorkshire."  And then, of course, the fateful day I picked up a copy of James Herriot's All Creatures Great and Small at a discount bookstore in the Mall St. Matthews in Louisville while waiting on KJ to get off work at Chick-Fil-A.  Oh, the days when my husband came home smelling like chicken and fries, and we got discounts on said chicken and fries, and we only had one car...good days.

But back to those Yorkshire books...I recognized Yorkshire-speak in the pages of James Herriot, and his stories are the best.  You should read them!  He's the best story-teller.

After our stop at Peveril Castle we drove on to a hotel in Yorkshire where we planned to stay a couple of nights and make it our starting point for a few ventures.  When we pulled up that night and KJ went inside to check us in, we were happy for this familiar sight.

Now, I'm sure I've eaten at McDonalds as much as the average American, but I've never been particularly attached.  These days I've been forced to find things I like to eat there that are reasonably healthy, as my husband adores it, and my kids are happy eating there, too.  KJ's appreciation stems from all the time he's spent overseas, and I can understand why he'd be glad to see the golden arches after eating dog in China.  (Oh, yes, he did.)  We were happy to walk across the car park to a familiar place, though it was the first time we'd been served at McDonalds by a girl of Asian descent, speaking with a Yorkshire dialect.  

The next morning we drove across Yorkshire toward the Lake District, and our drive was beautiful.  I'll leave you with an excerpt from All Creatures Great and Small if you care for that sort of thing and introduce you to one of James Herriot's most famous patients, a Pekingese named Tricki Woo.

Mrs. Pumphrey was an elderly widow.  Her late husband, a beer baron whose breweries and pubs were scattered widely over the broad bosom of Yorkshire, had left her a vast fortune and a beautiful house on the outskirts of Darrowby.  Here she lived with a large staff of servants, a gardener, a chauffeur and Tricki Woo...the apple of his mistress' eye...

A maid answered my ring, beaming on me as an honoured guest and led me to the room, crammed with expensive furniture and littered with glossy magazines and the latest novels.  Mrs. Pumphrey, in the high-backed chair by the fire, put down her book with a cry of delight.  "Tricki!  Tricki!  Here is your Uncle Herriot."  I had been made an uncle very early and, sensing the advantages of the relationship, had made no objection.

Tricki, as always, bounded from his cushion, leaped on to the back of a sofa and put his paws on my shoulders.  He then licked my face throughly before retiring, exhausted.  He was soon exhausted because he was given roughly twice the amount of food needed for a dog of his size.  And it was the wrong kind of food.

"Oh, Mr. Herriot," Mrs. Pumphrey said, looking at her pet anxiously.  "I'm so glad you've come.  Tricki has gone flop-bott again."

This ailment, not to be found in any textbook, was her way of describing the symptoms of Tricki's impacted anal glands.  When the glands filled up, he showed discomfort by sitting down suddenly in mid walk and his mistress would rush to the phone in great agitation.

"Mr. Herriot!  Please come, he's going flop-bott again!"  

I hoisted the little dog on to a table and, by pressure on the anus with a pad of cotton wool, I evacuated the glands.

It baffled me that the Peke was always so pleased to see me.  Any dog who could still like a man who grabbed him and squeezed his bottom hard every time they met had to have an incredibly forgiving nature...

The squeezing over, I lifted my patient from the table, noticing the increased weight, the padding of extra flesh over the ribs.  "You know, Mrs. Pumphrey, you're overfeeding him again.  Didn't I tell you to cut out all those pieces of cake and give him more protein?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Herriot," Mrs. Pumphrey wailed.  "But what can I do?  He's so tired of chicken."     

Mrs. Pumphrey was likeable, gave widely to charities and would help anybody in trouble.  She was intelligent and amusing and had a lot of waffling charm; but most people have a blind spot and hers was Tricki Woo.  The tales she told about her darling ranged far into the realms of fantasy and I waited eagerly for the next instalment...

"But I'm so disappointed about the new summerhouse--you know I got it specially for Tricki so we could sit out together on warm afternoons.  It's such a nice little rustic shelter, but he's taken a passionate dislike to it.  Simply loathes it--absolutely refuses to go inside.  You should see the dreadful expression on his face when he looks at it.  And do you know what he called it yesterday?  Oh, I hardly dare tell you."

She looked around the room before leaning over and whispering:  "He called it 'the bloody hut'!"...

Driving home, I mused on the many advantages of being Tricki's uncle.  When he went to the seaside he sent me boxes of oak-smoked kippers; and when the tomatoes ripened in his greenhouse, he sent a pound or two every week.  Tins of tobacco arrived regularly, sometimes with a photograph carrying a loving inscription...

Hitherto, I had merely rang up and thanked Mrs. Pumphrey for the gifts, and she had been rather cool, pointing out that it was Tricki who had sent the things and he was the one who should be thanked...I set myself to compose a letter to Tricki...I thanked my doggy nephew for his Christmas gifts and for all his generosity in the past.  I expressed my sincere hopes that the festive fare had not upset his delicate digestion and suggested that if he did experience any discomfort he should have recourse to the black powder his uncle always prescribed. 

A vague feeling of professional shame was easily swamped by floating visions of kippers, tomatoes and hampers.  I addressed the envelope to Master Tricki Pumphrey...

On my next visit, Mrs. Pumphrey drew me to one side, "Mr. Herriot," she whispered, "Tricki adored your charming letter and he will keep it always, but he was very put out about one thing---you addressed it to Master Tricki and he does insist upon Mister.  He was dreadfully affronted at first, quite beside himself, but when he saw it was from you he soon recovered his good temper.  I can't think why he should have these little prejudices.  Perhaps it is because he is an only dog--I do think an only dog develops more prejudices than one from a large family."

Quirky people, beautiful scenery, and there are groups of people attempting to plant churches throughout Yorkshire now, to saturate the villages with the gospel.  I told KJ I'd go with him.