Up here, in the North East, regional accents are many and various. Yesterday we were up in the very north of North Yorkshire, at Whorlton near Stokesley - or "Stowsla" as the locals call it. For me Stokesley marks a line where Yorkshire thee's and tha's quite suddenly mutate into a more unintelligible tongue. A bit Yorkshire, a bit Geordie, a little bit Scottish, perhaps.
It's glorious i' summer tahme,
There's nae spot under't moon,
Where't new mown hay smells hauf so so sweet
As't diz i' Stowsla toon.
A stone is a styen, a house is a hoose, one is yan, look is luck. Enough is eneaf.
I've occasionally heard the hills around these parts called the "rubbish hills", a reference to the heaps of waste created by nearby ironstone and jet mines in the mid-nineteenth century, but the lumps and bumps visible in these fields are all that's left of the lost village of Whorlton. Well, not quite all...
there is also a not half bad medieval ruined castle to explore
and the substantial remains of a Norman church, pleasingly spooky in green.
Sadly, we can't go inside but we have seen its rare treasure, visible through a peephole in the door.
The carved bog oak effigy of Lord Nicholas de Meynell of Whorlton Castle who died in 1322 is thought to be the only wooden, London-made military effigy in Yorkshire, comparing favourably with those in Westminster Abbey.
Outside Holy Cross Old Church, Whorlton the sky was lightening, though the words on this stone don't lift the heart - the spelling's rubbish too!