REGULAR readers will recall that at the beginning of each new year, I feature reminders of topics which have prompted active interest during the past 12 months. These have invariably involved letters from correspondents throughout this region and further afield, even from some living at the other side of the world.

With that in mind, I thank all who have written or telephoned with their comments. Response from readers is very much a lifeline for this modest digest of rural life; for some, it is not easy to summon the courage to express their opinions and I do thank all who have made that effort.

Some of my regular correspondents are well into their 80s and 90s, and I regard their knowledge and memories as very precious and important indeed.

The mettle of all correspondents in putting pen to paper (or finger to computer) is very much appreciated, not just by me but by all who follow the vagaries of these weekly notes. And, of course, I also welcome comments from those who disagree with me or who correct my errors - without their input, life could become very sterile indeed.

If my post bag is any reflection of readers' interests, then the dialects of this region continue to fascinate us, even if fewer of us are using dialect in our everyday speech.

In the past, dialects were mainly restricted to identifiable areas, even something as small as a village or dale. Those with a keen ear for language could identify the village or the dale of origin of a speaker, but the influx of outsiders as residents, plus the effect of modern methods of communication, has brought about many changes to the way we speak.

If we use our ancient dialect beyond the boundaries of our home patch, then we risk the chance of not being understood. For example, some years ago, I went into a Darlington hardware shop and asked for a gripe. The unfortunate assistant had no idea what I was seeking and might have thought I'd either come to make a complaint or to grumble about the state of my stomach!

I wasn't seeking gripe-water, however. I was looking for a garden fork, the sort one uses to harvest potatoes or spread manure. I'd always known them as gripes and, as a naive young man from the North York Moors, was somewhat surprised to discover the name was not universal.

In this column over the year, we have highlighted a range of dialect words and expressions, including felty, larking, marrer and, more recently, shippon.

It was the word shippon, widely used in Lancashire and the West Riding of Yorkshire as the name of a cow shed, which prompted a reader to send me a map containing a variety of other words for this farmyard structure. Each region of Britain seems to have its own name for a cow shed and they include: cow house, cow hovel, cow stall, cow shed, cow stable, byre, beast house, neat house and mistal.

In similar vein, the names of our villages and geographical features prompted interest locally and further away in Norway. A Norwegian reader has highlighted the similarities between locations in his country, and many in this region. His letters referred to Voss, Wass and Foss, for example, along with Kildal, Lingdal, Loftus, Fyllingdal, Underdal and Husthwait, and he tells me the first King of Denmark, King Svein, may have spent time in the Kildale area.

In 1870, seven or eight Viking burials, complete with axes and swords, were uncovered beneath the church floor, and, as he says, not far from Stokesley is a village which may be named after King Svein - Swainby.

The English Place-Names Society's book The Place Names of the North Riding of Yorkshire adds strength to this by suggesting that Swainby means Swain's Farm, possibly derived from the old Norse personal name of Sveinn.

By coincidence, a reader from Hartburn near Stockton had been to Norway around the time these comments were being aired, and she spotted Fylingsdal not far from Voss. And on the North York Moors, of course, Fylingdales Moor does rise above the dramatic waterfall, Falling Foss.

Rhea's rants

My notes highlighting the growing contempt for our countryside by litter louts and other tourists, whether on foot or on wheels, have produced a good deal of supportive correspondence. Some readers have asked me to continue with my Rhea's Rants against such nuisances, the most recent being a letter, received only on the morning I was compiling these notes.

The writer, a woman living in a village near Northallerton, goes to the trouble, during her morning walk, of collecting litter dropped by others but she tells me that, as her village is not on the tourist route, most of the rubbish is dropped by residents and visiting tradespeople.

It consists chiefly of beer cans, cigarette packets and plastic sandwich wrappings. On one occasion she saw someone in a council wagon toss rubbish from the vehicle, and passes comment about people and schoolchildren in Northallerton high street actually walking past litter bins to drop their lunch wrappings in the street.

Maybe anti-litter education should feature at school? Most certainly, it should be part of our household education, particularly when it relates to having picnics in the countryside or travelling along our lanes and footpaths.

Cumbersome

A1though caravans have not dominated my notes this year, I've had letters about irresponsible and incompetent caravan drivers - a Teesside reader jokingly suggests arranging caravan races up Sutton Bank, while others tell of dreadful driving standards by some drivers of the cumbersome nuisances.

Happily, the police throughout the country are now paying attention to caravans, stopping them for roadside checks for various illegalities and dangers, overloading in particular.

One of my own experiences last summer was the sight of four caravan units parked one behind the other on the roadside on the summit of a narrow local lane. Queues of cars were waiting patiently for the blockage to clear, because, approaching from either direction, there was no view beyond the caravans. Because they were parked on a summit, they brought traffic to a standstill - myself included.

Thinking there was a problem, I left my car and walked to the front caravan, only to find they had all stopped merely to admire the view! Strangely, none used the layby which was only 20 yards ahead of them, with a caravan park a further 200 yards away. But that would have meant walking a short distance.

They were prepared to inconvenience other road users for this moment of bliss, but when I pointed out to the leader that he was obstructing the highway and parking dangerously, he decided to leave and to take his pals with him.

On the subject of caravans, in my morning paper today there is a note about the Caravan Club wishing to expand a site in beautiful Rosedale by constructing a tractor shed, workshop, staff quarters and offices on its members-only caravan park. There is also talk of building a bridge across the lovely trout beck to a new picnic area and recreation site, and so allow a further 63 caravans to cross the river.

The local CPRE has described the plan as a disaster for a village already suffering from an overload of tourism but I think the most dreadful comment of all is that "because the campers do not like parking under trees", the site requires a new layout to allow caravans to cluster in the middle. I thought the whole idea of caravanners trekking into the countryside was to get a flavour of rural life, even if it does mean parking under trees.

As a reader once said to me: "I don't visit Cornwall now because I want to enjoy the sight of the sea from the cliffs, not endless rows of white caravans blocking my view."

There is little doubt Rosedale will suffer similarly if these plans are approved - and if anyone doubts the effect of such ill-considered schemes, why not drive into Filey through Folkton and Flixton in the summer. You'll get a flavour of what's in store if such plans are approved - a sea of white caravan roof tops greet you, instead of a view of the sea with rows of white horses. And who wants that