Why I’ve never wanted more to come back home

EVERY YEAR, it’s a similar story: “There’s a rising tide of Londoners heading up North!’’ The sentiment, the incredulous exclamation mark, I’ve always found patronising – this migration is presented more as an indictment of London living than the appeal of ‘‘the North’’, which is painted as a homogeneous blob north of Birmingham.

Reporting niggles aside, the trend stacks up. Data from Countrywide, the largest network of estate and letting agents in the UK, shows that migration from the capital to northern England peaked at 13 per cent last year, compared to just one per cent in 2009. For the Yorkshire diaspora in London, this comes as no surprise.

I was born and raised in Yorkshire – Brighouse to be exact – but, for all my sins, I have lived ‘‘down South’’ for 14 years. A big chunk of that has been in London, where so many brighteyed and bushy-tailed grads wind up. At age 32, I still enjoy it: drinks overlooking the Thames; stumbling into a Vietnamese on Kingsland Road; the general buzz around Victoria Park, especially in summer. But the pull of home has never felt stronger.

Lockdown has forced us all, in the words of the Queen, to ‘‘slow down, pause and reflect’’. For many non-native Londoners in their early 30s, that includes daydreaming about a life outside the capital: a life in Yorkshire. They imagine owning a home and revelling in a slower pace of life, with easy access to the countryside. By that I mean the proper stuff, like Malhamdale, Ilkley Moor and Bolton Abbey, rather than a towpath leading to Hackney Marshes (don’t even get me started on London’s ‘‘farms’’).

They long for a reasonablypriced brew, the ability to own a dog – London dogs are entirely ignorant about how the other half live – and perhaps even knowing their neighbours’ names. And they yearn for both the county’s warmth – being called ‘‘Love’’ by a total stranger – and its steely grit.

As if that’s not enough, I’ve also found myself craving the humility of home: if British people are averse to bragging, Yorkshire folk are vehemently allergic to it.

My family, not inclined to follow me to Hackney, remain in Yorkshire, forming a sort of wonky triangle between Steeton, Brighouse and Roundhay. I miss them dearly. Lockdown has made me imagine what living back home would be like. The notion of drinking by the Thames has become less appealing than watching my seven-year-old nephew play football for his local team or even enduring my dad’s no-nonsense advice – usually given lovingly but unprompted over a Timothy Taylor’s pint.

A Vietnamese on Kingsland Road is now less tempting than taking my Grandpa to Skipton’s Bizzy Lizzie’s or having afternoon tea with my mum in Harrogate (Bettys of course). And Victoria Park, as beautiful as it is, simply can’t compete with a long walk in the Dales.

I’ve never taken Yorkshire for granted. If anything, living outside God’s own country forces you to respect its place in the world, whether it’s Hockney’s retrospective at The Tate Britain, Alan Bennett’s latest play at the National (he included many inside jokes for Yorkshire natives) or the acclaim of Gentleman Jack. At the Olympics 2012, I felt smug about Team Yorkshire’s victory over Australia. At Easter, even a re-run of Kevin Costner’s Robin Hood and The Prince of Thieves made me smile warmly, as I recalled summers at Aysgarth Falls, playing Little John v Robin Hood with my brother. Whichever role I played, I always lost.

This romantic, rose-tinted view of Yorkshire is undoubtedly influenced by my childhood. In reality, I’m not naive enough

At 32, I still enjoy London but the pull of home has never felt stronger.

to think that the county is as wholesome as Bill Bryson describes. But nor do I buy into the view – which some affluent Londoners have – that the North is stuck in a timewarp, in such a permanently impoverished state that it’s a natural choice for a Ken Loach film. In reality, of the 25 constituencies with the highest rates of child poverty, two are in Yorkshire, compared to 12 in London.

But it’s also true that educational attainment is lower in the North, that job creation lags behind the South, especially London, and that austerity has been felt harder. These statistics are as unjust as they are unnecessary, but they’re also insufficient to deter me from dreaming about a lockdowninspired move back to Yorkshire. I increasingly wonder whether I’m exacerbating the Londoncentric model that compels so many young people to overlook Yorkshire in the first place.

Besides, Bryson is right about some things: Malhamdale is the finest place I’ve ever seen.