On Yorkshire

Though I’m a Londoner at heart, a part of me will always belong to Yorkshire. I spent four years ensconced in the comforting embrace of York, and it came at such a formative time in my life that I think it shaped me more than it would have if I moved there now.

I didn’t necessarily fit easily into life in the north. There was some…how can I put this…reverse snobbery, I suppose? I faced quite a few knowing nods and snide asides about my southern status, made all the worse of course by the fact that I was “a Londoner” (so obviously a pretentious snob). This probably wasn't helped by the fact that I speak in what is arguably a bit of a posh voice. None of the comments were uttered with malicious intent, but I did spend my first few weeks up north feeling a bit defensive about my non-Yorkshire roots.

However, all of the above came much more from the fact that I was dealing with northern students – all slightly nervous, insecure teenagers like myself, who had been let loose in the wild for the first time and were trying to work out what it was to be independent and “an adult”.  Once we’d all gotten to grips with that, and noticed that our differences were far outweighed by our similarities, we rubbed along together quite nicely.

If I had to put my finger on exactly what it is that makes me love Yorkshire so much, I don’t think I could do it easily. There’s a whole host of reasons that combine to create a pretty potent, gut-based feeling that turns me into a silly mess when I pass through York on a train (cue embarrassing tears), or makes me do an excited double-take when I hear a Yorkshire burr out and about on the streets of London.

A lot of it has to do with nostalgia and personal significance, of course. I did a lot of my growing up in Yorkshire. I learnt to be on my own there. I had my first real relationship (and my first real heartbreak). I made friends who were, for the first time, completely unrelated to who my family knew, or who I went to school with. All of those things are important turning points in a young woman’s life, so York – for me – has a rosy tint to it that has nothing to do with its geography or character.

However, I also quickly learnt that there was something about the nature of the region that suited me well. York itself was the perfect size and pace for me – not too big, not too small – and had so much history seeping out of its pores that you could feel it like a physical presence. The people, too, were on the whole very different to those I’d grown up around in London. They were less self-involved. Friendlier. Sometimes (read: often) a lot more blunt and forthright…but I loved that. In a city like London, everyone is rushing from one thing to the next, trying to dodge tourists, trying not to catch the eye of a stranger who might try to talk to them. In York – and, as it turned out, in other cities, towns and villages in Yorkshire that I explored – people acknowledged each other and didn’t seem to be in their own bubbles so much.

There’s an honesty about the Yorkshire attitude that I like. And there’s a picturesque Englishness, a sense of culture and history, about the place. I’m not saying that you can’t find these things in London, but as a capital city my hometown is a beautiful melting pot of cultures, experiences and people. I love that – I’m happy to be surrounded by that – but a part of me will always pine for the sense of identity and homeliness that I feel every time I go back to Yorkshire. For me, it will always be my second home.

On growing up

“If growing up means it would be beneath my dignity to climb a tree, I'll never grow up, never grow up, never grow up! Not me!” – Peter Pan

Peter Pan has always been one of my favourite stories. Creative, more than a little dark, and ever so resonant - anyone who has ever fought against the pull of time, or longed to grow up and felt the frustration of a friend not maturing alongside you, can find something familiar in its pages. I was never one for climbing trees, but I can still sympathise with Peter in his desire to cling on to childhood.

I have reached that stage in my life where the prospect of growing up – becoming a proper adult – is not just nipping at my heels, but is rather violently dragging me forwards. I’m technically supposed to be a grown-up already, right? 26 going on 27, gradually approaching my late twenties…this is the point at which you are supposed to be a grown-up. My parents were probably grown-ups at this point in their lives. My grandparents definitely were.

Certain things in my life are beginning to make this impetus to grow up all the more present. In a few months, for example, I will no longer be an official “young person”, according to National Rail. I will be forced to surrender that particular badge and, with it, the ability to travel around the country without completely bankrupting myself. Equally, I have attended two friends’ weddings now. Weddings have moved away from being events that I attended out of familial obligation - a bit dull, a bit too long, and a bit above my head - to occasions where my friends suddenly morph into real adults who are probably going to be starting families soon.

…FAMILIES.

That, alongside the ever-encroaching fear brought on by successful friends who are on real “career trajectories” (lawyers, teachers, editors, entrepreneurs), is making me feel like there’s a calendar somewhere with “grow up” written on it in big letters, and the number of days to cross off between now and then is reducing by the minute.

Now, I am not saying that I am a complete child. I have a proper full-time job. I pay bills, and rent, and other extortionate costs associated with living in London. I have a certain level of maturity about life, relationships, and the way in which I put myself out there. I have learnt when to stop drinking in order to avoid hellish hangovers, and am past the point where I can go clubbing without feeling like a bit of a fraud (though, to be fair, this has always kind of been the case). But…BUT…my life is nowhere near being sorted. I don’t know where I’ll be this time next year, or what I’ll be doing. Shouldn’t adults be sure of that kind of information?

Growing up, of course, is rarely something that we’re aware of doing. Maturity sneaks up on you, and before you know it...one day you'll be looking in the mirror, or will catch yourself in the middle of a thought, and you'll realise that you've changed. That you're not the uncertain, “taking each day as it comes” person you were before. Without noticing it happen, your life has fallen into a sort of orderliness around you. That is - I believe - how it generally happens.

Then again, perhaps that's not quite the same thing as "growing up". Perhaps we never really consider ourselves to be “grown up”. It does sort of imply a finality that jars with the way we live our lives, doesn’t it? As if you reach a stage and then stop developing, stop learning, and become stuck with what you have. A scary thought indeed. Maybe we’d all be better off if we strove never to be grown up. To be forever “in development”. Sounds like much more of an adventure to me.