Nicholas Rhea: Yorkshire Life

“Excuse me, is this the way to Derby?”

I asked her to repeat the question because her strong Scots accent made me unsure. Yes, that was her destination. I pointed out she was a very long way from the East Midlands and not on a direct route. I suggested she headed for York first and then followed the A1 and M1 to the south.

“Oh, no,” she said, “We don’t want to go near York or on any motorways.”

“Have you a map?”

“No,” she replied. “Only this.”

She indicated a printed route issued by a motoring organisation which avoided cities and motorways as it guided the couple from their home near Edinburgh to their destination.

Sadly, the map-reader had overlooked a vital left turn and had got hopelessly lost. So I suggested that they make for Malton and the A64, either to buy a map or telephone their route adviser to seek directions. I never saw them again.

It reminded me of a car stolen in Barnsley which was reported to be heading along the A1. Sure enough, a North Yorkshire police patrol crew parked in a lay-by north of Scotch Corner noticed the speeding vehicle as it raced towards the Co Durham boundary. They gave chase and stopped it; four youngsters were inside.

“Where are you going?” asked one of the officers.

“Skegness,” answered the driver. “No you’re not. We’re all going to Richmond Police Station.”

Another tale involved a doctor from Edinburgh who rang North Yorkshire police to advise the control room staff that his mother was heading south from Edinburgh with the intention of reaching Oxford.

“Fine, but why are you ringing us?”

“She can’t make right turns,” the doctor told the officer. “So I’ve devised a route where she need only head straight forward or turn left. “But in case she gets lost, I am ringing every police force between Edinburgh and Oxford to request that if they find her anywhere, could they kindly return her to my route?”

She was duly found in Harrogate and returned to the A1.

Recently, I helped a family driving from Newcastle upon Tyne to Flamingo Land near Pickering, and the only map the driver possessed was an envelope with Newcastle, Thirsk and Pickering linked by lines in ink.

One of my colleagues found himself dealing with a very irate seaside visitor. “Officer,” he snapped from behind the wheel, “where are the Italian gardens?” “There aren’t any, sir.”

“Are you new? Or stupid? I’ve been coming to Scarborough for years and always visit the Italian gardens.”

“This is Whitby,” smiled the constable.

My favourite story concerns York before traffic was banned from the city centre. An American tourist in an English car had driven round and round trying to find his way out and eventually, in exasperation, he hailed a policeman.

“Say, officer, how do I get outta this goddam museum?”