HAVE you seen those adverts recently encouraging people to consider Yorkshire as a holiday destination?

There are similar ones for Scotland, Cornwall and Ireland and they all follow a rigid formula – a handsome, late twenty-something couple are depicted walking over rugged hills, dining in soft-focus restaurants and enjoying the company of locals in an impossibly rustic and candlelit pub.

A suitably atmospheric soundtrack provides the finishing touches and hopefully encourages Jean and Jim of Norwich to buy into the dream and book a caravan holiday at Filey.

Being York born and bred, I was proud to see my county portrayed so romantically and, of course, I welcome the millions of pounds that tourism brings in to the city each year.

But what is that nagging doubt at the at the back of my mind whenever I see these adverts?

I lived down South for a while, just outside London, in Maidenhead – or the Royal Borough of Windsor and Maidenhead to be precise.

One of the things that struck me while down there was how alive and well was the clichéd view of what “The North” was like. I actually worked with a bloke in his forties who admitted never having been further north than Birmingham in his life.

During my two years down there my York accent was attributed to Sheffield, Darlington and as far north as Newcastle. In fact, one colleague called me Geordie right throughout my stay.

I suppose the thing that worries me is that once they (southerners) come up here for a visit, they might actually want to stay. When they see we don’t live like someone out of a Hovis advert, they might want to move here and push up our house prices and use up all our water and put lemonade in our lager.

They do things differently down there – it was very confusing at first. They don’t have dinner at noon – they have lunch. And as for tea, well that’s called supper down there. I thought supper was just a small snack before bed.

If someone invites you to their house for supper, don’t turn up at 10pm expecting a glass of milk and a custard cream.

I’m not one of those insufferable Yorkshiremen who thinks the county is God’s own. I love London and I love Northumberland. Heck, I even have a soft spot for Slough.

The thing is, I like to visit – then I like to come back. Let’s just keep the relationship between us like that, shall we folks. Here’s how; we must perpetuate the myth that The North is still a cobbled enclave of cholera and clogs.

I made a lot of friends down there; in fact I made some of my best friends down there.

But I don’t want them moving next door to me, with their lager-tops and penchant for pickled eel tongues, or whatever it is they eat.

So the next time you bump into a visiting southerner, by all means show them the best bits of our county, but maybe just throw in a little something too, purely to make sure they don’t linger.

You could say, for example “While you’re in York you must visit Museum Gardens and see the peacocks. It’s wonderful for a picnic and they hold bear-baiting every day at four o’clock.”

Or you could try: “I can recommend a day at Brimham Rocks, the kids will love it. Just make sure you have left before the full moon because someone was attacked by a werewolf there last year.”

The Scottish have been using this tactic for years on the English, making us all believe that they are really a bunch of lard-loving beer-swillers who shrivel like salted-slugs at the hint of sunshine.

Actually though… come to think of it.