What Are You Trying to Say?

Day: 13 (Manchester to Hebden Bridge)

Average Speed: 9 mph

Distance: 28.1 miles

Distance Cycled Total: 641.4 miles 

Feet climbed: 780.8 ; 30,328.9 total

Difficulty level: Very, very easy... with a 1/2 mile torturous climb at the end

Signage on the bulletin board in my hostel

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Of course," the young bartender replied. 

Horses on my route today.

"Is it difficult to understand me when I talk?"

I often wonder this, since the language can be so difficult to comprehend with the accents that grow thicker as I head north. People often assume I am Dutch, or even Irish when they hear me talk. I don't quite get that either. "You don't sound like they do on the American telly!" a woman had told me back in Cornwall. "And I watch a lot of American politics. You don't sound like them either!"

Thank God for that. 

"I can understand you just fine," the bartender said. 

View of Hebden Bridge from the hostel on the hill

I had just finished the day's unremarkable short ride. After showering and finding accommodations in the cleanest hostel I've ever been in- where shoes and meat products aren't allowed beyond the front door (a severe contrast to the rathole I found in Manchester)- I rode back down the steep hill into the center of Hebden Bridge. A few lazy pedals around the "fourth funkiest town in the world" (no idea what the first three are), and I decided on The Stubbing Wharf for dinner- an 18th century canal-side inn I'd passed on the way into town. 

"The beer is cheap and the food is good!" a diner had called out when I was initially passing.

Sold. 

That's when I met John. 

Lisa, me, and John

He noticed my accent as I ordered a pint, and the Usual Questions began. Before my beer was poured, John had paid for it and demanded I join him and his girlfriend out on the patio. 

The thing is, I could only understand about every fourth word John was saying. 

I'd asked if he'd ever been to the States. 

"I... [unintelligible]... Vancouver... [unintelligible]... then down to Reno... [unintelligible]... bear.. [unintelligible]... cubs... [unintelligible]... I had no idea they weren't friendly!" 

I nodded and laughed at the correct times, but had no real grasp on what John was saying. I'm pretty sure he flew into Canada then decided to try and trap a bear in Reno, but was unsuccessful and perhaps attacked. Was it the thick Yorkshire accent making comprehension difficult? Or perhaps a few too many pints of Fosters?

Today's headline in The Sun

The same sort of thing happens when I talk with Jamie. I have to ask him to repeat every third sentence he speaks. It's both entertaining and exhausting.

"What 'ya think 'o Trump?" John asked, eyes bulging. 

Silence as he stared at me.

I hate this question, as I try to avoid polarizing conversation that never seems to matter in the long-run. 

Instead, I countered. "What do you think of Boris Johnson?" Though England's newest P.M. is certainly in the headlines today, I haven't heard any discussion of him whatsoever.

"What an idiot! He... [unintelligible] and Brexit is [unintelligible]... so Trump is [unintelligible] and World War II we... [unintelligible]... Churchill needed... [unintelligible]... Dan get this American another beer [clear as a bell]!"

Looking to change the course of the conversation, I asked John about the charming town of Hebden Bridge.

"IT'S FULL OF LESBIANS!" he shouted. His girlfriend Lisa told him to quiet down. "What?"

Pride banner in town centre

he said, "It's true! It's the lesbian capital of the U.K.! Probably the world! I don't care a'tall... people can do whatever they want! I'm just saying... they're always walking their dogs!"

John seemed prone to dramatics and exaggeration, but I fact-checked this later, and he was correct. A quick search confirms this unequivocally. Pride flags fly proudly throughout the town and shops cater to all types of lifestyles. A banner promoting Happy Valley Pride Week: An Eclectic, Alternative, an Inclusive Week-Long Festival for Everyone was strung in the town centre, and outré cabaret acts were promoted on street corners.

Pic doesn't do justice, but the lights at night
surround the town in the hills

Tucked in a valley, it's a beautiful town with a lively, warm, and welcoming personality. At night, the soft glow of street lamps decorate the surrounding steep hills where residences are embedded. It almost looks like a Christmas tree. I appreciated this as I hiked back up to the hostel after John had called it quits for the night. 

"I'm... completely... pissed," John eventually said, as if suddenly realizing his drunken state. Several times, he'd invited me to ditch the hostel to stay at his house for the night. I certainly appreciated the offer- and probably would've accepted had I not already checked in- but it's rather a good thing I didn't.

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Though a resident here for the past dozen years, he didn't seem to capture the essence of the town. 

The hostel on the other hand, run by a woman named "Tree" has six different recycling bins, funky artwork, and pamphlets promoting acceptance of one another. 

I like it here. 

Their message is easy to comprehend. 

P.S.

I can only assume that someone asked a five-year-old to name these towns.