A Toast to Yorkshire by Adam Rutter

credit: Adam Rutter/Gencraft

I walked along a quiet road, treading on the same path that I followed in my youth. The road cut through the Yorkshire Dales National Park, across The Pennines, and through three villages: Hetton, Rylstone and Cracoe. The road started in Gargrave, which is where I used to go on holiday in the 1990s. I returned to 2000, a year before the outbreak of Foot and Mouth Disease. Rolling fields were gridded with drystone walls, lining the roadside. The constant sound of sheep bleating travelled through the air, mixed with the lapwing calling a tearful cry.

The skies were overcast, though the views of the surrounding countryside were still clear enough to see. Cracoe was visible from a distance. I stepped over wooden boards, spanning the level crossing. A film of lime traced alongside the single track after being deposited by a passing freight train. Hetton, the first village I arrived at had a pub standing above the roadside: The Angel Inn. Sat in the beer garden was a young man with light brown cropped hair, wearing a black tee-shirt showing the cast from Star Trek: Voyager. He was definitely in his early twenties. The last time that I was here, I was 22. That earlier part of my memory sent a shiver down my spine, making the skin tingle on my hands and face. The man looked distinctly like me. What gave the game away was his tee-shirt.

I wondered into the beer garden. Slowly, I moved closer to him. There was absolutely no doubt. He was a younger version of myself. He was sitting at a square wooden table. There were many like it outside the pub that were occupied by quite a few patrons. He did not have a pint on the table. Had he already bought a drink at the bar? Was he waiting to be served? I mean, he couldn’t take a drink outside himself, not without spilling it everywhere.

I walked gingerly towards his table. He had his back to me. I stopped a few paces from my younger self. I cleared my throat, and then I began.

‘Good afternoon,’ I said.

He looked round, wondering whether if I was addressing him. Concern and confusion were written on his face.

‘Pardon me for asking,’ he began, ‘but do I know you from somewhere?’

‘Here, there, everywhere,’ I said.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Oh. Er, yes, you do know me.’

‘How do I know you?’

‘We were both born in the same place Adam.’

‘Wait a minute. How d’you know my name?’

‘Because that’s who I am.

‘What!’

‘That’s my name.’

‘But that still doesn’t explain how you know my name.’

‘Look! Can’t you see what I’m trying to tell you?’

‘No.’

‘Do I have to spell it out for you?’

Adam’s eyes blinked; the flush in his cheeks drained, turning pale.

‘My god. It can’t be,’ said Adam.

‘It is, Adam.’

‘How’s that possible?’

‘Time travel is possible. I mean, you said so yourself.’

‘Are you saying you’ve time travelled all the way here? In the dales?’

‘Of course.’

‘But, why here?’

‘I love the dales.’

‘When did you come?’

‘Today. May I join you?’

‘Eh. Oh, yes. Of course.’

‘Thank you.’

I sat opposite Adam, overlooking the views of green fields and pasture. A waiter came out with a notebook and pen.

‘Would you like me to get something for you gentlemen,’ the waiter asked.

‘Would you like a coffee Adam?’

‘Nah. Coke will do me.’

‘And what would you like, sir?’

‘Green tea, please.’

‘Green tea,’ asked Adam.

‘Yeah.’

‘What the hells that?’

‘It’s tea that’s not being properly fermented.’

‘Ah, would that be the same as Yorkshire Tea?’

‘Er, not quite.’

‘Would you like t’bite?’

‘You what now!’

‘Would you like a meal?’

‘Oh, that’s very kind of you.’

‘How about a ploughman’s?’

‘Well, we might as well plough our way through our time in the dales, now that we’re here.’

‘I see that my sense of humour doesn’t get any better.’

‘Does it ever?’

‘My humour...or, should it be our humour has always been uphill, down dale.’

‘You know, we should drink a pint of ale in the dale.’

‘I thought you were no good at poetry.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Then how come you rhyme words?’

‘I’m not sure if I follow you.’

‘You were doing it.’

‘When?’

‘Just now.’

‘Was I?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What did I say?’

A tractor was chugging along, drowning out Adam’s voice. My nostrils drew in the exhaust fumes, making me cough and splutter.

‘Could you repeat that,’ I asked.

‘Repeat what?’

‘That rhyme.’

‘The rhyme?’

‘Yes.’

Adam’s face was blank, as though files had been deleted from his memory bank. There was silence between us, dragging on from seconds, into minutes. Not another word was spoken. The silence seemed to go on forever. I saw Adam smile in his eyes, like he had a eureka moment.

‘I remember what it was,’ said Adam.

‘So, it’s finally come back to you, has it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What was it?’

The rustic noises of the countryside swallowed up when a supersonic jet screeched overhead, cutting Adam off in mid-sentence. All I could see was his lips moving. It was like a loudspeaker being muted. The jet thundered in the distance, disappearing behind a peak.

‘Could you say that again,’ I asked.

‘Oh, I think it’s gone again.’

‘You’re telling me you’ve forgotten?’

‘Yeah. That’s exactly it.’

‘Your glass of coke would’ve lost it’s fizz by the time you remember.’

‘I think my rhyming has lost it’s fizz ’an all.’

‘Surely, it hasn’t.’

‘It has.’

‘The one way for rhyming to keep its fizz is to write more.’

‘I drink to that,’ said Adam, raising his glass before gulping his drink down him.

‘Hey,’ continued Adam. ‘Why don’t we propose a toast?’

‘To what?’

‘To Yorkshire.’

I lift my cup off the saucer. ‘Here’s to Yorkshire.’

‘To Yorkshire,’ said Adam, holding his glass like an Olympic torch.

The cup and glass clunk together.