I recently spent a night in the ancient village of Chillingham, in the heart of Northumberland.
The area was idyllically lush, but the landlady of our B&B recalled a visitor, from Shropshire, who expected it to be so bleak and wind-swept that the trees would be horizontal.
Misapprehensions and prejudice about the north are nothing new. Many Northumbrians sigh when they tell you that people rush to get from Newcastle to Edinburgh, as if the country between them is so full of bogies it must be covered at top speed.
My novel Dacre's War, the sequel to After Flodden, is set in this overlooked and dramatic region. At its core is the idea of the north, as seen from the court of Henry VIII. The English may have triumphed at Flodden, but they were now more aware than ever of the threat the Scots posed. Henry VIII's man in the north was Thomas Dacre, Warden General of the English marches, and a robber baron so cunning and ruthless that he held more authority in these parts than the king. Despite his collusion with criminals, and his reprehensible behaviour, he stayed in post because Henry realised that only a man like him was capable of keeping control of such a violent place.
Dacre's War is a story of revenge, played out in the Scottish-English borderlands, between the all-powerful Dacre and Adam Crozier, a clansman from near Selkirk, against whom the odds are stacked. From a Scottish perspective, the borders are the far south, and yet they contain the same characteristics that make the north intimidating: a sense of remoteness, discomfort, and imminent danger. In his superb study, The Idea of North, Professor Peter Davidson of Aberdeen University captures this frisson: "To say 'we leave for the north tonight' brings immediate thoughts of a harder place, a place of dearth: uplands, adverse weather, remoteness from cities. A voluntary northward journey implies a willingness to encounter the intractable elements of climate, topography and humanity."
That feeling is vividly caught in Game of Thrones, where the north is an icebound wilderness, peopled by the living dead. Yet for Thomas Dacre and Henry VIII, the north was every bit as alarming. Dacre, in fact, truly believed he was haunted by devils. Yet it was to his advantage that Henry's court was reluctant to venture beyond York, and you can be very sure that he did nothing to allay the terror the word north aroused in even the most hardened of Henry's men.
Across the world, it seems, north is synonymous with fear (unless you're in Tuscany, in which case it is replaced with south). It is only recently that Tory MPs have been obliged to start talking about the periphery of the country, beyond London, though they almost speak through gritted teeth. The latest concept, the 'Northern Powerhouse', is expressly designed to placate unrest, and to suggest that cities such as Manchester, Liverpool and Leeds could be granted powers to put them on an equal footing with the great wen.
But if this is the government's idea of north, they need to go back to school. To the Geordie or the Cumbrian, these places are in some respects almost as far-off as the Canary Islands, and their concerns as foreign. Should plans for greater regional autonomy come to pass, a swathe of the English north will remain as unloved as ever. Indeed, the growing numbers of northern English signing a petition to join Scotland suggest that a new cultural and political divide has been detected, a rift which means that - just as in centuries past - the closer you get to the border, the less your voice is heard.
Some of this is because the north is not just remote from London, but is predominantly rural. Few city-bound politicians understand farming, fishing and forestry. The insularity of old communities that have grown up around these occupations is a reminder of times when clans had to stick together or perish. Even now if you walk through a borders hamlet or fishing village you can feel suspicious eyes drilling into your back.
If David Cameron were clever, he would appoint a lieutenant in the true north. This guardian would have the region from York to Carlisle and Berwick as their domain, and their remit would be to make sure the area was neither forgotten nor slighted in any fresh allocation of powers. Otherwise, trouble could - and will - foment.
Given the nature of the region, it would not be an easy post, and one wonders if there is anyone in Cameron's inner circle capable of doing the job. One thing, however, is immediately obvious. No politician alive is as powerful or tough as Dacre. Or nearly as interesting.
Dacre's War by Rosemary Goring is published by Polygon, £14.99
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