The Night I Was Heckled by a Herdwick at the Pub Quiz Or: How I learned that in Yorkshire, trivia is a full-contact sport.

10th May 2025

One of the joys of staying at Thisledo Holiday Cottage is that you’re just a short stroll from a proper Yorkshire pub — the kind with low beams, roaring fires, and at least one dog that clearly thinks it owns the place.

It was a Wednesday night, and the chalkboard outside the door read:
QUIZ NIGHT – 8PM
£1 to enter | Winner takes the pot | No Googling – we’ll know.

Well, what’s a solo traveller to do but throw themselves into the cultural deep end?

I ordered a pint, found a table, and was immediately adopted by a team called The Sheepish Smugglers, who welcomed me with the slightly suspicious air of people who’d had a reliable fourth member until last week, when Sheila left for Benidorm and took the sports knowledge with her.

“Don’t worry,” they said. “You can do the picture round. You’ve got a fresh face. Bet you know pop stars.”

Reader, I do not know pop stars. I know cheese. And possibly obscure shipping routes. But I digress.

The quizmaster — a man called Trevor with a voice like gravel and the ability to silence a room just by raising an eyebrow — kicked things off with Round 1: Yorkshire. The room collectively sat up straighter. A hush fell, broken only by the sound of someone rustling a packet of Scampi Fries and being immediately shushed.

“Question 3,” Trevor boomed. “Which Dales village was once known as ‘Little Paris’ because of its bustling textile trade and love of strong coffee?”

Our team huddled. Someone whispered “Settle?” Another said “Grassington, definitely, they’ve got an art festival.” I suggested “Paris-by-the-Dales,” which was not helpful.

But it was Round 4 that undid us: The Cheese Round.

Trevor, barely concealing his glee, announced: “You’ll each receive a wrapped sample of five cheeses. One point for each correct ID. Bonus point if you can name the region.”

It was like MasterChef meets Countdown, with more chutney.

Chaos erupted. Tables groaned under the weight of cheddar. A woman from the next team dramatically sniffed a wedge and whispered, “That’s a Red Leicester if I ever tasted one.” Someone else was clearly trying to Google “soft cheese with existential crisis flavour” under the table.

We did surprisingly well — until one of the Smugglers swore blind that Wensleydale was French. French. Trevor nearly choked.

And then came the final round: General Knowledge. Or, as it turns out in Yorkshire pubs, Local Knowledge That Outsiders Will Never Know.

“What was the name of the butcher’s ferret that escaped during the 1992 village fête?”

Silence.

Except from one table — The Herdwicks — who erupted in smug laughter.

“It were Colin!” they shouted, raising their pints. “Best day of that fête, he bit the vicar!”

They won, of course. By two points. We came fourth, narrowly beaten by Quiz Akabaar and Tequila Mockingbird.

I left with a warm glow, a free pickled egg, and the knowledge that even if you don’t win the pub quiz, you’re guaranteed a good story and at least three cheese samples.

Back at Thisledo Holiday Cottage, I reflected that there’s something glorious about a community that can turn trivia into theatre.

Next time, I’m bringing a ringer. Or at least someone who knows their Camembert from their Coverdale.