O FUNNY AS FOLK
A magical tribute to the extraordinary character who for 20 years edited the Dales’ most eccentric magazine. Never mind Compo – real Yorkshire wit is as dry as its stone walls!
to his throat, could reputedly down 12 pints of beer to 12 strokes of the clock as it struck mid-day.
It was an unlikely feat, but did give him a limitless supply of free ale from people testing the theory. By the time Mick had drunk three pints, Bill had hit his expenses limit.
The Dalesman was then, and remains, the reverse of most other magazines. It contains no fashion, no crime, no celebrity scandal. (I suspect the only way The Duchess of Cambridge could get into its pages is if s he s t arted breeding ferrets.)
It’s unashamedly a country magazine, with articles on history, crafts, walks, nature, dialect, sayings (such as ‘dry as a lime-burner’s clog’), and Yorkshire humour.
Which is, of course, like no other humour. A Dales joke is not designed to make you laugh so much as to make you nod and think. The magazine’s most famous cartoon character is Old Amos, an old boy in a smock, with a vast white beard and a stick. He’s been handing out wit and wisdom for more than 60 years now.
In one cartoon, he’s working in his garden as the vicar leans over the gate and says: ‘The Lord and you have made a fine job of this garden, Amos.’ To which Amos replies: ‘Aye, but it were a right mess when ’e ’ad it on ’is own.’
He’s handed out some handy advice over the years, has Amos. Such as: ‘Folk ’at think t’ least, talk t’ most’, ‘It’s no good crying ower spilt milk — there’s plenty more watter in t’ tap’, and ‘Start courtin’ t’boss’s daughter. It’ll save thi’ years o’ study.’
What The Dalesman had, and still has, is its own quirky charm.
It doesn’t do grim social issues, it won’t tell you what clothes to wear or what colour to paint your front door. It certainly won’t tell you how to improve your sex life.
Sex only makes it into its pages when considered part of country life. For example, in its Yorkshire Humour section, a teacher in a Swaledale school was telling her pupils about the parable of the lost sheep. She asked if they knew why the shepherd was so pleased
The Bible was re-written in a Yorkshire dialect
to find one sheep when he still had the rest of his flock.
Little Josh raised his hand: ‘Well, miss, ’appen it wor t’ tup.’ (‘Tup’ is the local word for a ram.)
Although he’d been effectively running the magazine for some years, Bill became editor in 1968, and it began to prosper as never before. Instinctively, he understood this odd mix of people and place, this strange conflation of landscape and personalities that created its own way of life.
He trekked over those high hills finding the people who enhanced his pages. He well knew Alf Wight, the vet who took to writing books under t he name James Herriot.
A near neighbour was the playwright Alan Bennett, who wrote occasionally for him. ‘Although,’ as Bennett once said to me, ‘I have yet to receive a payment.’
Payment? In Yorkshire? I don’t think so!
He also wrote about Kit Calvert, an old Dales character from Hawes, who was said to be ‘the saviour of Wensleydale cheese’ and re-wrote the Bible in Yorkshire dialect. To anyone outside the county, it may present problems . . .
‘Fer ther’s bin booarn t’day i’ David’s toon, a saviour, Christ the Lord, an’ ta prove t’ye ’at it is seea, ye’ll finnd t’babby lapped i’ a barrie cooat an’ liggen in a manger.’
Gracious and warm-hearted to the last, Bill Mitchell retired as editor in 1988 — but retired is hardly the word. He went on writing, furiously turning out piece after piece, book after book.
He knew that the Dales were changing and he was anxious to record it all before it was too late.
He was right. I can remember a time when if you saw a stranger in the square at Settle, you’d tell the police sergeant. I knew several people who had never left the county, nor did they want to.
A keen fell-walker, Bill was still working as he walked. He went out with three friends who called themselves the GBC — the Geriatric Blunderers’ Club — a bit l i ke Compo, Foggy and Clegg from Last Of The Summer Wine.
From the age of 56 to just before his 80th birthday, he paced the Dales, always with pen and notebook in his pocket.
Fellow GBC-er Bob Swallow was with him on the historic occasion when Bill had his first pint of beer. He was about 62 at the time.
He had been a lifelong Methodist, believing that drink was the devil’s brew and as a young man he’d only drink lemonade in the pub. So it startled Bob when at the end of a hard’s day walking in hot weather, they reached the pub at the Ennerdale Bridge in the Lake District and Bill chose a pint of beer. Although he modified his beliefs on beer, he remained a true Methodist throughout his life — his walking pals never heard him utter a swear word.
His l egacy i s The Dalesman, which continues to reflect the ordinary lives of the readers. It’s a must for those who live there or who love to visit.
To the frustration of editors then and now, local parsimony means that its readership is thought to be 25 times the number of copies sold because they are passed from hand to hand.
By the Sixties, the magazine was selling 60,000 copies, and although the internet has hit all publishing sales, it is still the best- selling country regional magazine.
True, life is a bit different now. For example, weekenders have moved in. Indeed, people come up from the south — from even further south than Leeds.
Wherever that may be!