Here in North Yorkshire, we hold the belief that the absolute cure for a shock or trauma is a mug of sweet breakfast tea. No one’s ever explained why to me, or offered a scientific explanation to back it up; but I know it to be true in the same way that I know that my dogs love tennis balls: years of experience.
When I fell into a nettle bed aged 9, I was treated with tea. When my grandad died a few Christmases later, the family convened in the kitchen, mugs in hand. When I got the call at University to say my dog had been put down, I brewed up and sobbed between gulps.
Maybe it's the comforting warmth? the minor hit of caffeine? the earthy taste? Or because it physically anchors you in one place: you can’t run away from your feelings while holding a full mug, can you?
If, god forbid, North Yorkshire should be hit be a large scale disaster, I hope someone has the sense amid the chaos to fire up some industrial kettles and parachute in the teabags.
Wherever in the world I've travelled, there's always been a store of Yorkshire’s finest with me; today of all days it seems right to add it to my pile of packing and salute the beverage that held make me, me.
Liking the nod to Clive James in the title of your blog.
ReplyDeleteThanks Rob!
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