Reg is a complex character. Despite having known him for nearly ten years, in many respects he remains a mystery to me on account of the fact that he is a man of infrequent words. I say infrequent rather than few because when he does open up it is as if a field gate has been left open and a flock of Herdwick sheep have made a bid for freedom. However, much of what does escape on these occasions even still remains a mystery as I have only the slightest grasp of local dialect. Unfortunate for me, though not for Reg who, I suspect could not give two Lythe valley damsons whether I have understood a thing he says or not.
But, not to be beaten, I have bought myself a slim but, I hope, invaluable tome: A Dictionary of Cumbrian Dialect. Flicking through its pages fills me with the hope that next time Reg’s gate opens up I will be able to grasp the basic meaning of at least some of what he says and, perhaps rather too ambitiously, further fancy that I might be able to respond in an appropriate manner.
Now, a couple of basics that I have missed come in to play to scupper my plan for a new North/South entente cordiale. Firstly, unbeknownst to me, there is really no such thing as Cumbrian dialect, Cumbria being a wholly manufactured bureaucrats' creation of the 1970s made up of the proud and ancient counties of Westmorland, where we live, Cumberland, which might as well be another country, together with Furness, formerly part of Lancashire and therefore definitely foreign (perhaps on account of the fact that there are palm trees growing on the promenade of Grange over Sands). So speaking to someone like Reg, who was born and bred in Westmorland, in a West Cumberland dialect is apparently like trying to order a Chinese takeaway in Indian and nobody would argue that that is a good idea. Secondly, what is printed phonetically on the pages of my dictionary bears less than even a passing resemblance to anything emanating from Reg’s mouth. Actually, by the sound of most of it, I think it comes up directly from his gut.
What’s more, Reg views us with a mix of suspicion and curiosity. To him we are exotic creatures imported from another land. We are at once as fascinating but out of place to him as a couple of peacocks in a hen house. He is enthralled that I have a past as a journalist – something that is a galaxy away from everyday life in Westmorland – and that a couple of barely thirty-somethings could have found a castle and made a life in it just amazes him.
Nevertheless, with blissful disregard of these hurdles, I greet Reg one sunny spring morning over the gate of one of our fields. The sun is shining, the curlews are calling and Reg has clearly been up most of the night delivering some of the new born lambs that are now everywhere. Great. These are perfect conditions for a discourse. I am not to be disappointed as Reg is in a talkative mood but he may chalk up what happens next as one of the more memorable, if not intelligible conversations of his life.
‘Now then’, I open.
‘Now then.’
‘It’s an alreet sort of morning.’
‘Aye, that it is,’ I think it’s all going quite well so far.
‘How’s the lambing coming?’
‘Aye alreet but I’m reedy for ma bait, howst bairdens fettle?
‘Um…’ I have the book in my pocket but realising I can’t just whip it out for a furtive look like a tourist in Amsterdam looking for directions to the nearest hash café I can only resort to ‘Aye’.
‘Ah sin tha an Border crack an deekaboot. Thas famoose.’
‘Umm, aye.’
Then things take a bizarre twist. That simple three letter word uttered uncertainly twice in a row is all the encouragement Reg needs to have some fun and he leads me headlong into a linguistic maelstrom. ‘Thoo’s lookin like thas bin thrang wid al yan screeves. Ist tha gay thrang?’ What? Is he enquiring about whether I’m gay? Is a gay thrang some sort of alternative tackle sold under the counter at the hunting, shooting & fishing supplies shop? I know Reg and I don’t share the same taste in shirts, but isn’t this going a bit far?
In a panic that I have bitten off more than I can chew, a particular phrase which stuck in my head for reasons I can momentarily not recall comes to mind. I blurt it out without a thought to its meaning or relevance. ‘Ah knacked me cleppets when ah landed an yon yat’. Then I do remember with a dreadful sinking feeling that my phrasebook was written with tongue in cheek.
Reg looks at me with a mix of unease and silent amusement, perhaps thinking I am trying to explain a) why I wouldn’t be wearing a pair of gay latex thongs on such a sunny morning or b) I am but it was a mistake as they’re chafing terribly.
‘Mmm. Mek us a cuppa scordy, ya’r sech a gran’ fella but there’s summat wrang wid ya’r dialeect’. Reg roars with laughter and I feel a wave of relief even though I still have no idea what’s going on. By the way he is now heading for the kitchen I gather he is asking me for a cup of tea and resolve to quit while I’m ahead. We revert to our status quo of Cumbrian versus Home Counties and somehow understand each other much better.
Over tea Reg offers to help me out in the grounds and I willingly accept on the condition that he doesn’t purposefully try to bamboozle me with words and phrases I don’t understand.
He grins, ‘would ah do such a thing ta thee?’
*The conversation translated as:
‘Hello’
‘Hello’
‘Nice day’
‘Yes’
‘How’s the lambing going?’
‘Well I’m ready for some lunch (which I have brought with me in a handy box packed by my wife because Westmorland men don’t make their own lunch), how are the children?’
‘Um, yes’
‘I saw you on the local TV news, you’re famous,’ (a reference to our awards)
‘Umm, yes’
‘It looks like you’ve been busy judging by all the cars, have you been busy?’
‘I caused some injury to my testicles (a term usually reserved for referring to a ram or tup’s business assets) as I landed incorrectly when jumping a gate’.
{Puzzled look on Reg's face accompanied by a hesitant step backwards}
‘Mmm, any chance of a cup of tea? You’re a great chap but there’s something seriously wrong with your communication skills.’
