Englishness: A quintessential cliché?

I remember quite distinctly moments last year in which I struggled to dismiss my qualms about studying abroad as my relatives’ questioning looks seemed to beg: “Why England?” Moments when people seemed baffled (if not positively horrified) that I had chosen the UK over my home country.

The climate, the people and the cuisine—or lack thereof—were all points severely stressed upon. Inevitably, swallowing my vague misgivings regarding the sanity of the Brits, I would evade the question with a feigned air of indifference and answer jokingly, “Well, it is an island!”

the greatest disillusionment lay in the realisation that not all men looked or even spoke like Austen’s quintessential English gentleman, Mr Darcy

In coming to live in York, however, I never felt “Culture Shocked". I won’t deny it, the cars were slightly distressing: could they not drive on the right side of the road? And, yes, why couldn’t the UK join the Euro zone? Yet, the greatest disillusionment lay in the realisation that not all men looked or even spoke like Austen’s quintessential English gentleman, Mr Darcy.

In fact, the accents were rather difficult; but what struck me most was not being called ‘love’ or ‘duck’ or even ‘pet’ by shopkeepers and canteen ladies, as much as the fact that that they seemed (for some obscure and puzzling reason) to serve potatoes with every dish.

The humble potato:more than a vegetable!

So, is that what it means to be English in York: double servings of carbohydrates? I doubt it. Perhaps, then, the answer lies in Betty’s?

Indeed, walking by York’s poshest tea rooms on a cold afternoon, seeing families and old ladies sipping their tea and eating their delicious-looking pastries, one cannot deny, that the elegant and distinguished essence of the tea-drinking ritual seems to lie at the very heart of Englishness. Too bad students too often switch to coffee—it’s okay though, we’ll blame the US for cultural imperialism.

I’ve been told it is particularly English to dislike our northern neighbours the Scots, and York is widely believed (on the internet anyhow) to sanction the murder of Scotsmen should they carry a bow and arrow within the city walls. However, there are no records of such a law or decree.

Cliché: A nice cup of tea

Anna Wheeler, of York City Archives, told The Yorker: “The records have been very well used by researchers and many interesting items have been published, but this one appears only in newspapers when not much else is happening.”

York’s history, however, explains the rumour: “It is true that York was used as a base for English invasions into Scotland for centuries. Scots were far from popular and were not allowed to hold office in the city. Most of us who live here now survive quite well and the city council even employ some of us—but we don’t tend to wander around with bows and arrows these days!”

Most of us who live here now survive quite well and the city council even employ some of us—but we don’t tend to wander around with bows and arrows these days!
Anna Wheeler, York City Archives

Well then. Wherein does Englishness truly lie? Not in potatoes; perhaps not entirely in tea drinking; and, hopefully, not in hating Scots.

I can only conclude that Englishness lies in that quaint unexplained je-ne-sais-quoi which makes York so charming. Not just the proliferation of automatic doors, the distressing alcohol culture, the attachment to phlegmatic politeness (somehow intricately linked to British humour) and the mildly deranged notion that rinsing dishes before drying them is somehow superfluous.

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