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Since moving into “the Dale” there have been a few adjustments -not least because we have just moved back from Australia, but also because I hail from a slightly more urban area of Yorkshire.

I was slightly confused when the local bus arrived with a Royal Mail emblem on the side only to recall an article in The Times I had read a week earlier about post buses. I clambered in with the letters and parcels, paid a nominal price to the friendly post-man and was dropped at the door of my destination.

Such services help to shore up an almost obselete public transport service in this remote area of England. Since the post is going that way anyway -why not just catch a lift? Were the system abolished, the local community spirit is such that I wouldn’t be surprised if the postie stopped to offer a lift regardless.

Certain other aspects of Dales life have left me feeling like a bit of an an ignorant townie. Silly me, to go to the shops on a Wednesday afternoon -it’s Wednesday closing. Buy the cheaper milk? Of course not, the other brand belongs to a local farmer. Prepare a meal on Thursday nights? No, just wait for the fish and chip van that arrives at 7:30pm.

Purchasing goods from the correct supplier round here is as much a part of local community spirit as joining in the annual effigy burning. The local economy relies on local support. Although the products are more expensive than supermarket brands -as the butcher explained, the produce is of far superior quality and often delivered direct to your doorstep by someone who knows your name.

Fordist mass production and the alienation of the workforce have not spread this far as predicted by Marx. It is fitting, therefore, that this area also serves as the bastion of the Conservative Party. William Hague is the local MP and Prince Charles goes grouse shooting on the moors nearby. During autumn, brand new Range Rovers scour the Dales followed by straggly teenagers with flourescent flags employed to drive the game towards the hunters.

A treasure trove for any historian, the area is also home to some bizarre traditions, most notably the “Burning of Bartle”. Every August bank holiday on a given day, the village men parade an effigy made of straw, known as “Bartle”. They then chant an old poem known to the locals and stop to knock at doors along the way. They are rewarded with several snifters of whisky or similar. Once they reach the end of the village, they set the effigy alight. Everyone then proceeds to the pub and gets drunk. Strange?

Legend has it that Bartle was a sheep rustler. The poem (which I have no chance of remembering) is the story of his demise and names local landmarks where various misfortunes befell him (at Grassgill Beck he Brak his neck etc…). To put this phenomenon in perspective, Stroud have their annual cheeserolling festival and Helston in Cornwall has its Furry Dance. Who said the English were bland?!

See the new video of The Burning of Bartle here