Hardy Dales revellers who danced the night away (From Craven Herald)

Hardy Dales revellers who danced the night away

1:10pm Monday 9th January 2012 in Craven History

The Craven Dales had a rich and varied tradition of folk dancing that was performed to the music of fiddle or melodeon. In the years between the wars, when folk dancing was especially popular, Lilian Douglas, of Giggleswick, toured the area to record them. She jotted down details of such dances as Square Eight, Huntsman’s Chorus, Brass Nuts, Kendal Ghyll and Meeting Six. Old men recalled the steps and hummed the tunes.

Also popular were the old-time dances at which Harry Cockerill and Peter Beresford and his wife provided the music that kept Dales feet tapping.

Harry, who played an accordion, was self-taught, perfecting his technique at High Greenfield, a solitary farm on the old packhorse route from Upper Wharfedale to Horton-in-Ribblesdale. When Harry’s father moved to a farm in Bishopdale, and before Harry was married, he lived a solitary life for six years in a farmhouse that stood one and a half miles from his nearest neighbour. Being a self-taught accordionist, the wailing sounds were not heard by the neighbours.

Eventually, Harry played for dances, travelling to and from the venues by motorbike. His accordion was attached to the bike by cow-bands.

In those days, dancing was of secondary importance to arm-raising exercises at the local inn. There were hiccups all round. Some dances did not get started until midnight and dancers “nivver knocked off” before two o’clock. In Coverdale, an old Army hut had a sloping floor. Alarmingly, there was a stove at the lowest point.

Harry’s work did not end with playing for the last dance. On his way home, he was inclined to fodder cows at the outbarns.

Another unusual venue was the Tank House at Garsdale station. It was a centre for dancing, for whist drives, potato pie suppers and concerts. Anyone who could play a musical instrument was welcome to play. The dances were known as “sixpenny hops”. Farmers and their wives would only consider old-time dances. A stationmaster remarked: “They won’t look at the samba and modern stuff, perhaps because we haven’t enough young people to set an example.”

The “wallflowers” sat on red-upholstered seats taken from a scrapped railway carriage. The buffet was a wheelless railway carriage of Midland ancestry.

Another Craven worthy who provided music for dancing was Harry Wilson, a blacksmith at Settle. When he attended dances, he usually had two musical companions for support. The most unusual venue was a barn at Douk Ghyll. A cart cover was stretched across the doors to cut down the draughts. Even so, the musicians wore top coats and mittens during an event that began at 8pm and ended at 4am. They were paid the modest sum of ten shillings.

Dales dancers were a tough breed, undeterred by a few flakes of snow. An old chap told me, calmly, in recent times, that he and his wife had travelled home from Dent by car on a snowy night when the road had shrunk to the width of a council snow plough. Another keen dancer asserted that “If I didn’t dance, I’d lock up wi’ arthritis.”

Farmers’ dances were, to rural folk, occasions that must not be missed. To attend such a dance at Bentham, a farmer’s son cycled 10 miles, danced until the early hours and then cycled home. For the Primrose League’s annual ball, the same youth caught the last train to Bentham, danced until 3am or 4am, found shelter to play cards with his friends – and caught the first train home.

Dales dances were slow to “warm up”, there being much chattering among old friends. You knew supper was imminent when a “friendly waltz” was played. Supper varied in size and quality. There might be a cup of tea, two sandwiches and a bun. I once had my tea poured from a can that had been dipped in a bucket.

In the days of pass-outs at village dances, anyone who ventured near the door was likely to be indelibly marked, like a cow at an auction mart. An official would smile, lean forward, grasp a hand and plant a rubber stamp on it. This confirmed the dancer had paid for admission.

At one pre-Christmas hop, the band, a threesome, was accommodated on a small stage. The pianist removed his coat – and the front of the piano – before performing. A cup of tea teetered on the edge of the lid. There were cigarette burns on the edge of some of the ivory keys.

Old-fashioned dances were, as usual, the most popular, with their simple steps and catchy, well-known tunes. Two popular dances were the St Bernard’s Waltz, the Valeta and a progressive barn dance, during which the progress of a poor male dancer might be traced by the grunts of some of the ladies.

When a granddaughter inquired about my courtship, I recalled dances at Skipton Town Hall in the Big Band days. When the Lancers were announced, they were undertaken with gusto and loud whoops, exaggerated whirling movements and all the fury of a Cossack sabre dance.

The Big Band of the time struck up the opening chords – and away went the dancers in an unstoppable progress towards physical exhaustion. Young girls were spun off their feet. One of them slipped from the grasp of dancers and slid across the floor, coming noisily to a halt among a knot of gossipers near the door.

Dances were lively events. One of my favourite tales concerns a villager who asked a friend: “Was the dance a good do?” “Aye,” was the reply. “We had t’piano over three times.”