DECEMBER offers surprisingly little weather lore, most of its wisdom being linked to Christmas rather than to the whole month. However, a cold December with a substantial snowfall is generally considered good for the harvest which follows next year, with some countrymen believing that a heavy snowfall is as beneficial as an application of manure, especially when it melts slowly into the ground.

However, frost is not quite so welcome in December, particularly if it is followed by a period of heavy rain. An old saying tells us that December's frost and January's flood never boded the husbandman's good!

Worries about rain are never far away - one very old but oft-quoted weather saying is that "If it rains before mass on the first Sunday in December, it will rain for a week". That Sunday has now passed but as I am compiling these notes ahead of publication, I have no idea what kind of weather that week has brought - and perhaps is still bringing.

FOLLOWING my notes about Martinmas, otherwise known as the feast day of St Martin of Tours, which falls on November 11, I have received an interesting letter from a reader living at Walshford, near Wetherby. My correspondent, a retired farmer, explains why many country people, farmers and landowners in particular, have long celebrated Martinmas on November 23 rather than November 11. It is all to do with the calendar changes which occurred in this country in 1752.

The actual change occurred in 1582 when Pope Gregory corrected faults in the calendar by removing ten days - October 5 became October 15 - and he also added February 29 to make further corrective adjustments every four years. That calendar was known as the Gregorian calendar, sometimes abbreviated to "new style".

The changes were necessary because the previous calendar was inaccurate. Over the centuries, the seasons had become misplaced and evidence of this could be witnessed at each equinox. Gregory therefore corrected the errors and created his new calendar which would also ensure the faults did not recur.

England, however, being a newly-Protestant country, refused to accept Gregory's calendar, probably suspecting some kind of Papal plot. In time, however, it was accepted - but not until 1792. By this stage, it required the removal of 11 days to make the necessary corrections and so, in England, September 2 that year became September 13, but this led to all kinds of local problems. Some people rioted because they thought they had been cheated out of 11 days of their lives but, as my correspondent points out, the farming community in Yorkshire paid more attention to the actual timing of the year rather than a date on a calendar.

As contracts of employment entered into during the Martinmas hirings were legally binding on all parties for a whole year, that shortened year caused real problems. Men and women were hired for a year; wages were paid to cover a year, but 1792 was a few days short.

No self-respecting farmer would pay wages for days which had not been worked - and, of course, a contract was binding on all parties. It seemed logical to forget the actual dates and restore those absent days to the shortened year, thus having that year's annual hirings fairs on November 23.

In spite of the changed date, they were still called Martinmas hirings, although there were later attempts to restore them to November 11. This did not prove popular and over the years there were very few transactions on that earlier date. And so it was that most Yorkshire farmers continued to hire their new servants on November 23, still referring to it as Martinmas.

This continued well into the Twenties, and indeed some farmers continue to regard the date of Martinmas as November 23.

Those ancient changes are still reflected in our calendars with names like Old Christmas Day, Old May Day, Old Midsummer Day, Old Lady Day and so forth. Lady Day was March 25, the start of the new year and the beginning of the financial year for the nation - and if you add those 11 days now, it brings you to April 5 - Old Lady Day - which is still the start of our income tax year.

FOR anyone with a love of Whitby and a problem about buying a Christmas present for someone with similar respect for, or association with, that delightful seaport, I can strongly recommend a book called Yorkshire Fisherfolk by Peter Frank (Phillimore, £17.99).

Recently published (and reviewed by Victoria Ellis in the D&S Times' books column) and with more than 100 wonderfully atmospheric illustrations, some by Frank Meadow Sutcliffe, it provides a vivid and beautifully written account of the unbelievably tough life of Yorkshire fisherfolk, whether they be men, women or children.

Not only has Prof Frank produced a learned volume of work, he has also produced a book of memorable stories. Peter Frank was born in Whitby and spent many of his formative years in the town. Consequently, his book focuses on Whitby as a work of love but we must not forget it is also a vitally important record of a former way of life along the entire Yorkshire coast.

Prof Frank has written a masterpiece about a culture which is unknown to, and never suspected by, most of us.

Not only did he examine written records dating to Elizabethan times, he also spent hours and hours along our coastline with a tape recorder so gain the testimony of those with stories to tell, stories based on the lives of grandparents and great-grandparents whose folk memories date to more than two centuries ago.

And what stories they are! Because the book is neatly divided into logical sections such as women's work, the herring fleet, the homes of the fisherfolk, boat building, community life and so forth, the reader is able to dip into any part of it to find something of compelling interest.

It is that sort of book - you pick it up, read a riveting account of some aspect of life and work along the coast line, and put it down. And the following day, you do it again.

Consider these few snippets. Imagine a fisherman's wife who is four or five months' pregnant. She treks down to the shore to gather sea-coal and finds herself waist deep in cold seawater with a basket of coal on her head. Then she feels sick and falls, but manages to crawl to the beach where she gives birth to a stillborn child. She struggles to her feet, wraps the body of the child in her wet skirt and carries it, along with her coal, up 40 or 50 steps into her home.

Then imagine the state of those early homes, many clinging "like a colony of martins" as one writer put it, to the sides of the cliff in places like Whitby, Staithes and Runswick Bay. They were built as close as possible to the sea but many were swept away in storms or simply sank down the cliff-face; they had no sanitation and unbelievable cramped accommodation yet were kept scrupulously clean.

And the community would actually build houses for newly weds. There's a nice touch.

It's not surprising the men went off to sea in their boats but theirs was no easy life either. The biggest and most profitable catches meant the hardest work, but what does a highly-skilled fisherman do when there are no more fish left to catch? His skills and knowledge cannot be adapted to the land, and as the fishing industry dwindles, there must be reason for us all to experience genuine concern.

What is the future for our modern fisherfolk and the beautiful fishing villages and towns along our coastline? It is a big question.

This is a book to cherish - and to make you marvel at the courage of a special group of people.

OUR native dialect is always of interest to readers of this column and some may be interested in the Yorkshire Dialect Society's annual Christmas Crack. This takes place tomorrow in Phoenix Room 14 at St John's College, York, from 2pm.

It is a jolly occasion with readings and stories in the dialect of the Yorkshire Ridings. Kessmas will be featured, I'm sure, as will references to kedgin, an' 'appen there might be summat aboot keeaks, kindlin, kissin-bushes and keppings!