For those not in the know, I’m from Yorkshire. West, to be more precise. And whilst I’m not a religious person, I can see why it’s been nicknamed God’s Own County.
It can sometimes be surprising just how much pride I’ll take in being a Yorkshire lad. Whilst I’m up here, everyday life just goes on as normal. But if I’m away, especially on the other side of the Pennines, I become much more vocal. The old adage of “How do you know if someone’s from Yorkshire?” “Don’t worry, they’ll tell you!” rings fairly true, more so after a few ales.
Any why wouldn’t I be proud to be Yorkshire Born, Yorkshire Bred (strong in t’ arm, weak in t’ head)? We were once the powerhouse of the country, with many of the huge textile mills still standing, most converted into office and commerce complexes which give the town centres a unique feel. Even our local outdoor market is held in the Piece Hall, a 16th century trading building, making it the oldest shopping centre in the UK. Add to that two pubs that are older than the USA, rumours of underground tunnels connecting various buildings from centuries gone by, and the invention of the infamous Halifax Gibbet (a forerunner to the guillotine), it’s clear why I’m happy to spend my regular working days in a town full of rich history.