Judgement Day

Northern Man: at last a blog theme about which I have some in-depth knowledge. And am willing to share it. Chew it over at length with two individual close analyses and my own photos.

But first an overall view of the subjects. To begin, a quote taken from my book when I write it ….

‘It is a well-known fact that a Northern woman desiring matrimony to a good sort must look for a Southern man.’

You can’t say fairer than that.

Where is North exactly? Well it’s where the bad weather comes from. Where the men are harder, less easy going.

As everywhere is either North or South of somewhere else, apart perhaps from the poles, and as geography isn’t my specialist subject, for the purpose of this blog North or The North as the inhabitants like to call it, will be the North of England. Lancashire, Cumbria, Yorkshire and Newcastle which lies in an uncharted grey area between Yorkshire and Scotland.

Northern men in abundance are confined to these English areas. Visitors and tourists will find them everywhere, no need for binoculars. The keen spotter will notice their peculiar characteristics. The traditional clothing, cloth cap, braces made of string, wellington boots no matter what the weather. Clutching a sack in which a pair of ferrets can clearly be seen moving. A dog, either whippet or collie next to him. He won’t look happy. It will be raining on him even if the ground around is dry. As he passes sheep will raise their heads as if strangely attracted; it is the smell.

So, what literary heart-throb is the Northern woman able to turn to for consolation?

Isn't that scowl pure Ted Hughes?

Heathcliff and Mr Rochester. Dear God! Every Northern man rolled into two. One uncouth and feral, spending his time on moors. The other a superior two-timer.

Heathcliff: brusque and surly, a conversational nightmare. Clears off for years thinking the woman will still be waiting. False wooer, wife abuser, constantly thinking of another woman, fitful temper, dark lord, badly furnished home. Tyrant.

Rochester: advertising in the paper for young women, dressing up as a Romany female, dishonest about his marital status, devious, inclined to bad-temper, petulant, throwing a wobbly in church – holy premises – making the vicar and Jane run across land, and up to the attic. Then wrestling with his wife in front of the guests.

Is it any wonder that Jane runs off and Kathy marries another?

I do realise that I may have given up any chance of entering into the Holy Estate with a Northern man but that is a sacrifice an investigative writer has to make.

Mr Rochester and Jane

The Northern Man

A flat cap if sunny a sou’wester when wet,
long woolly scarf knotted under his chin.
Holding a whippet on the end of a lead.
Covered in pigeon fluff from standing in loft.
Pushing a bike. Moaning about Southerners
and wimmen who he swears he’ll never understand.
Funny ideas about who does the housework,
cooks the meals, lights the fires, chops the wood.
Sheep shedding and dipping, avoiding favourites,
he knows each ewe by name. Clutching his money.
A penchant for rhubarb and black pudding.
Trousers held up by string. Constantly scowling.
Priding himself on his blunt tongue. Striding
across God’s own county, wherever that is.

Woe betide them, of course, if they marry a Blackpool woman!

Thanks for reading, Jeanie B.