And then there were the ...Dales!

And I can already hear the question forming; what was a nice boy from Athens doing in the Yorkshire Dales? The answer lies somewhere between the Corinth Canal and an English rose who, quite curiously, looked just like Princess Diana, including the slightly pointy nose.

She was from West Yorkshire, and to be honest, I never fully understood what she saw in me. At the time, I was drifting through a strange period of uncertainty. I didn’t know what I wanted from life. I wasn’t sure whether my studies were leading me anywhere meaningful and I had no clear idea what I expected of myself, from the world, or even from the future. It was a confusing time, restless, murky but oddly enough, it’s what led me to Yorkshire.

And there, the pure city boy, who until then thought pollution was ...air, met nature for the very first time. Real nature. Endless green hills and winding footpaths, sheep-dotted fields, and the kind of silence that feels like a living thing.

I discovered long walks in the countryside, cosy village pubs with creaking floorboards, roast beef and kidney pies, and, of course, Yorkshire bitter. That last one had more to do with the nature of my stomach than the environment.

Back then, people said Yorkshire folk had a reputation for being tough, difficult to approach, curt in conversation, with more stern glances than kind words. Some even called them xenophobic. But that wasn’t my experience. What I saw were hardworking people, especially in places like Sheffield, where the working-class spirit was alive and well.

Beyond the cities, in the smaller villages, I saw farmers locked in a daily battle with the land, weathered, stubborn, and proud. They didn’t speak much at first, true, but I always felt welcome at the local pub in my neighbourhood. In time, I got to know most of the regulars. They accepted me not as a foreigner, but as one of their own, just another bloke having a pint after a long day.

Even now, forty years later, I feel a pinch in my chest as I write this and leaf through those memories. That feeling tells me how much I truly loved the place.

My time in the Dales lasted almost five years, the same length as my relationship with the girl. And strangely enough, both of those relationships ended at the same time, when I discovered a new career that had absolutely nothing to do with my studies or my first job. It was an unexpected turn, and it led me not just out of Yorkshire, but out of the country altogether.

From the green hills of the Dales, I found myself in Saint-Germain-en-Laye, just about twenty kilometers from Paris, France.