Open Writing

There is, in the esoteric world of psychology, an interesting condition known as cognitive dissonance. Pay attention at the back there! Put simply, cognitive dissonance is the `pain in your head' you get when two things exist which give rise to conflicting feelings. Let me give you an example ...

When I lived in Germany I acquired a smattering of German which, when I risked speaking it in the presence of German nationals, would sometimes prompt the comment "Oh - your pronounciation is very good "hoch Deutsch" i.e. high German, the Teutonic equivalent of BBC English.

While I was preening myself at this compliment, some knowledgeable colleague would remark - "Ah yes, that's because of your Yorkshire vowels!"

Such cutting down to size will often bring about cognitive dissonance. Such a comment, however, does suggest that there are those around me who recognise my Yorkshireness. And that, I claim, is the quality which qualifies me to write what follows.

I visited Robin Hood's Bay recently. This is a tiny village at the foot of a steep hill and surrounded by high cliffs just south of Whitby in North Yorkshire. As one approaches there is a typical, indeed classic, view of some white cottages clinging precariously to the side of the hill. The whole impression one gets of the village is of many little houses and cottages clustered together in a tight formation as the cleft of the valley closes in around them.

If you walk towards the shore line, the most noticeable sight is of some huge boulders jumbled higgedly-piggedly one on top of the other as though some giant children had been playing. Many had been there for milennia, but many more had been transported there recently by an optimistic local council hopeful that their massive presence will prevent the sea from undermining and eroding the village, and the houses and seaside hotels on the cliffs above. Time will tell, but the sea seems confident ...

Turn right and you see the beach. Because this is North Yorkshire a cold wind whistles across it - what the locals call a `lazy wind' because it goes through you rather than round you. Because this is also Britain, and the British love their holiday by the sea, determined knots of holiday makers bunch behind their colourful plastic wind breaks and dig determinedly. Though each family enjoys its small patch of personal sand, the people on the beach find some warmth and comfort in clustering close together.

It is my fancy that these cottages, rocks and people are the reason for the name `Robin Hoods Bay'. It goes something like this. Think of the comedian Roy Hudd. Think of how his last name is pronounced by BBC announcers. But we Yorkshire folk despise a soft vowel, and we pronounce the good Roy's surname in the same way as we would pronounce the head covering which a monk, or latterly an anorak has, i.e. `hood'. By extension, the Queen's English would pronounce the verb `huddle' rather differently from how your typical Tyke would. And because cottages, rocks and people are all tightly packed, cheek by jowl, in the valley, the first name it had was "Huddle Bay" - pronounced, inevitably by the locals, as "Hoodle Bay".

Years passed, and in the way of casual speakers everywhere the last syllable disappeared, and the village became "Hood Bay". But that was too short and uninspiring. It held no mystery and no attraction. As tourism and holiday-making became a useful money spinner for local people the canny publicity conscious among them thought - why not link our name "Hood" with the romantic outlaw Robin - who robbed the rich to give to the poor. Never mind that Nottingham was 150 miles away - he had a horse didn't he? And so it was that Huddle Bay became Hood Bay first, and then Robin Hood's Bay ... Q.E.D.