Aye, t’wind were proper nippy o’er moor this mornin’, an’ t’crows were kickin’ up a right racket like they owned t’place. Old Jack were down lane wi’ his flat cap pulled low, mutterin’ summat about price o’ coal an’ how nowt’s been same since mill shut. Still, kettle were on, fire were cracklin’, an’ there’s nowt reyt like a brew strong enough to stand spoon up in it while rain taps steady on t’winder.
Down market, folk were buzzin’ like bees in a jam jar, chattin’ o’er tatties, tripe, an’ who’s lad’s gone off t’Leeds for work. Fishmonger were shoutin’ his offers loud enough to wake t’dead, an’ smell o’ fresh bread drifted out bakery door, pullin’ in passers-by as if by magic. It’s funny how a grey sky don’t dull nowt when there’s good crack an’ friendly faces about.
By neetfall, lamps glowed warm along cobbles, an’ pub door creaked open to spill laughter into t’street. Pints clinked, tales grew taller wi’ each round, an’ someone in corner started hummin’ a tune half village knew. World might spin fast elsewhere, but here it ambles, takin’ its time, same as it always has — an’ truth be told, folk wouldn’t have it any other way.