There has been recent talk about Independence and a split from the United Kingdom not by the Scots, Welsh or Northern Irish but by the potential Republic of Yorkshire.
Dubbed the Socialist Republic by the Union bashers in the 70's and 80's this proud county, God's Own Country indeed has found new emphasis and confidence following unprecedented success at the London Olympics. There has been much talk about the tally of Yorkshire medals exceeding that of whole Nation States and with it a resurgence of all things Yorkshire.
There has been the mention of Yorkshire on US Prime Time TV recently with its own brand of tea forming part of a sub plot in the terrorist drama Homeland. A mobile tea-bar has also been driving many thousands of miles around the States reuniting ex-pats with a proper brew and educating the natives in what really constitutes the ritual of serving tea.
The county of Yorkshire has everything to suit separation and existence as an autonomous state.
A wide choice for capital city from historic York to cosmopolitan Leeds, multi cultural Sheffield and the Gateway to Europe of Hull. Plenty of natural resources both under and above the ground ,some bloody good exposed and windy hillsides on which to position wind turbines, strong tidal rivers for further power generation and a good arrangement of existing bio fuel power stations. The population is hard working in all sectors, somewhat dour, non materialistic and straight talking.
The geography is amongst the most varied and spectacular in the world from the North Sea Coast to the high Moors, the flatlands of the great glacial vales, rolling rural acres of wolds and upland forests.
In fact everything is in place to go it alone.
Everything apart from a stirring anthem. I was a bit alarmed today to hear about the threat of extinction from the memory and physche of Yorkshire folk of perhaps the strongest candidate for the role- "On Ilkley Moor ba'tat".
I am not a Yorkshireman, although my wife has called me "tight"on numerous occasions which coming from a Hull born Lass almost elevates me to honorary status even though I hail from the genteel Aylesbury in Buckinghamshire.
I grew up singing the song on a regular basis as it was a mainstay of the Scout movement and a rousing tune for around the campfire. My father sang it, My Uncle David who was a scout with my father will have known the words by heart and I would wager he could still sing it now in its entirety. I have also heard renditions of it on the football terraces but apparently it has fallen out of the public songbook in the last generation.
I blame its potential demise on the health and safety culture. Those who have been familiar with the stirring and emotional lyrics and parump, parump tune and who may have been willing to volunteer in the Scouting or Guiding movement have been deterred by the rigours of meeting ridiculously stringent insurance requirements , risk assessments and other criteria but in the absence of which in my youth I was not conscious of being in peril, in harms way or close to being abducted or abused.
The anthemic value of the song has therefore skipped a generation and a danger point has been reached. Fortunately this was recognised by representatives of the fledgling Yorkshire nation and a determined effort has been made to revive the Ilkley Moor legend. Mass choirs have recently sung it, Brian Blessed ( a coal miners son from Yorkshire) and Lesley Garrett amongst others have recorded versions and alternative rap and rhythmic beats have been developed to excite the interest of the younger generations.
What is the charm of the song?.
Well, it is a morality tale, a caution to those young bucks who would go out on the bleak Ilkley Moor without a hat on. The moorland jaunt was for the purposes of recreation and love and the object of desire, that Mary Jane did have a bit of a reputation for being an outdoorsy type. Apparently the narrator of the song may himself have had designs on said Mary Jane in trying hard to warn off the hero of the song. No hat- a very significant risk of contracting a cold and in those days, pre-Night Nurse and Lemsips, this could be fatal through chill, fever and pneumonia.
Ilkley Moor was also touted as a place for being buried and this will have induced considerable fear and trepidation in a society where death was still a great taboo. To add further fear the narrator threatens that 'tworms' will come and eat thee up. I assume that 'tworms' are not genetically mutated subterranean monsters but probably refer to ' the worms'- my fragile comprehension of the Yorkshire language and dialect falls a bit short here. The Moor is also a place of free roaming ducks who, after feasting on 'tworms'will themselves be ritually slaughtered and eaten by the friends and acquaintances of the witless subject of the song. You can see where this is leading can't you. Cannibalism by proxy. The song does finish on a happy and comic note in that amongst the to-do, the grieving, organic decomposition and an ultimate food chain we observe that it is place where the ducks play football. Nice image although implausible for that species.
Sentiment aside it is still a very stand to attention worthy tune. If I have earned a vote from my 33 years of naturalisation in Yorkshire(subject to passing the examination), and added two of three children to the roll-call, it would definitely be for that song on any Referendum Day. I just hope that Mary Jane does not come forward to give an alternative and less than glowing account of what really went on up on the Moors- hat or no hat.
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