Tuesday 25 June 2013

Wearing Purple

People are drawn to the Morris in various ways. Some are born to it, with fathers or uncles, or in these more enlightened times, mothers or aunties already in a side. Some may come to it as part of a community payback programme. Actually, that's not true. Some though, see a side dancing out, and think "I want some of that". With my wife and I, it was the Witchmen, at Southwell Folk Festival. With Angie, it was Beltane Border Morris, at Upton.
We've danced with some great sides, Seven Champions, Boggarts Breakfast, Ironmen and Severn Gilders, Rivington Morris. Now at Teignmouth Festival, we were going to be dancing with Beltane.

For us, up in the West Midlands, Teignmouth is a bit of a trek, it's fair to say. On a Friday evening, starting out around 4ish, we were expecting the worst, especially when we saw the ominous signs on the M5 warning of delays around Bristol. Nevertheless, we made the trip in about three and a half hours. The M5 takes you almost all the way. By 830pm we were ready to hit the town. It's compulsory to eat fish and chips the moment you arrive in a seaside town, so we had a look round and found a decent chippy, Finn McCools. Suitably fed, the next thing was a watering hole. It all seemed to be happening at the Riviera Cafe Bar, a large imposing pub on the seafront, so we went in. Doom Bar was on offer, as was Aspall's Suffolk cider. The session upstairs was in full flow, with some excellent singers and musicians. We had a few, a chat with Lizzie, Sarah, Stuart, Alf and Liz from AngleTwitch, Angie and Doug, and wended our merry way back up to the campsite, at the Teignmouth Community School, conveniently situated at the top of a steep hill. And so to bed.

The next day, it was all looking a bit grim. The wind was howling, well, it had been all night. The clouds had gathered, and a marquee which had been erected by members of Beltane was listing somewhat.I got dressed and washed, and wandered down to the school for some breakfast. An excellent bacon, sausage and egg bap and plenty of tea later, we were ready to go. We were all to meet down at the East Cliff Cafe for the procession. See my last blog for my opinion on processions. Just add to it a roaring wind off the sea, blowing my drum all over the place, a pipe band (though I think I may have mentioned that before) and drizzle. Least said, soonest mended. After about 1/2 an hour of absolute purgatory, we were at the Triangle and ready to be introduced to a rapturous crowd. Despite the weather, which was breezy, chilly for June, and a bit drizzly, there were quite a few people assembled on plastic chairs in the Triangle. The Lady Mayor was there, and she opened the festival with a suitable flourish. Everybody in the procession had to do a dance. We started with an Ockington, and it got a cheer. That was good enough for a start. And the good news was, we didn't have to move, because we were dancing with Old Speckled Hen and Plymouth Maids in the same spot. It's always good dancing with clog sides because their dances last for about four minutes and you get a good break! A Brimfield, a Titterstone Clee and a Manning Tree followed in succession until just before noon, when it was time to move on. Our next spot was on the promenade, along with Gasket Rats and Grimspound, both accomplished border sides. We enjoyed a good thirty minutes or so with them to a fair audience, and then it was time for our lunch.

 I was getting desperate by then, it being half an hour past drinking time, so we adjourned to the Riviera Bar. Ian, our disabled musician, was so desperate for a drink, he tripped on the ramp and went flying into the dining area. The barmaid was great. We helped him up, and she cleared the kitchen and let Ian alone whilst he sorted himself out. Job done, she came back with an accident form and lots of sympathy. We enjoyed an excellent lunch, I had a couple of pints of Aspalls and I went upstairs to the gents. In my haste, I tripped up the stairs, cutting my hand. The barmaid looked concerned. I came back down a few minutes later to find everyone on their way out. The barmaid smiled at me. "we're out of here" I said, "place is a bloody death-trap!"

What a great barmaid! Mr P, you should be proud of her!

We then had our own special spot in the Triangle between 1.30pm and 2pm. I spoke to a couple of Welsh lads who were amused by it all. We did a few dances, basked in some quite ecstatic applause, and moved on to our 2 o'clock date with Imbolc Bedlam and Plymouth Maids. We were dancing in Bank Street, and as we arrived I asked Derek, of Imbolc, "where can I get a drink then?" "Well, we're supposed to be dancing here, but there's a pub at the other end so I suggest we all move up there"
"Oh I like you, you can join our side if you like!" It turned out to be a weekend of that sort of comment. I nipped into Molloys for a bottle of Bulmer's and came out in time for a Pershore Hanky.
We had a great hour there, with Imbolc and the Maids, and when it was time to choose what to do next, we just carried on. We ended up with a Tinner's Rabbit and even I had a dance with two young ladies who didn't seem to mind me kicking their shins.

Back to the Triangle for the last waltz, and our first glimpse of Beltane. They did an excellent White Ladies Aston, with far more gusto and energy than I have ever seen. We clapped and cheered as befitting a great dance by a great side. We did a Pershore Hanky, which got great applause, and finished proceedings with a Twiglet.

We'd been invited to Beltane's party on the Saturday night, so after a shower, and a change of clothes we headed over for a burger at the Ceilidh in the school. We watched Boekka's dance spot, an interesting mix of Gothy Morris and movement. About nineish we went over to the marquee and joined the proceedings. What a party those Beltane people throw! Music, singing, beer, food and friendship. Possibly the best session I've ever been to. And I suppose really, after their enthusiastic cheering of us in the Triangle, we should have guessed. But it turns out that Beltane, one of the best Morris sides in the country, think that we're pretty good too. Highlights of the evening? Well, a sublime performance by Seamo of the classic Gogol Bordello song "Start Wearing Purple" on guitar with kazoo accompaniment by Keith and Joe. A beautifully rendered "They Don't Write Them Like That Any More" by Spike and just about everyone else. An amazing free-form dance display by Arwen to  "American Pie". Oh, and a rousing rendition of the Disney classic "I Wanna Be Like You."
Wonderful, wonderful stuff. Around 2am, my wife and I left, to hugs and handshakes all round. As I was leaving, a pretty girl with red hair gave me a hug. "We're so excited about dancing with you tomorrow" she said. I nearly cried.

After a few hours sleep, we were up and ready to go. Another breakfast bap, and down to the seafront for dancing with Boekka and Newton Bushel, a fun Cotswold side with a great Fool. We danced turn and turn about as usual, and had a good time on the seafront, as we did in the next spot, at the Triangle, with Newton Bushel (again) and Old Speckled Hen. Another lunch in the Riviera Bar, and it was over to the promenade for our spot with Beltane.

A few months ago, Richard Ingrams had written a small article in The Oldie magazine, moaning about Morris dancers clogging up his pub. "A rabble of young men and women in drab green costumes and black masks, many of them unsteady on their feet, as they struggled to keep in time with the monotonous diddly-diddly-dee tune of a squeeze-box....." he called them. Well, all I can say is, that in his haste to get a few cheap laughs, he failed to do his research. He's obviously never seen two bloody good sides pulling out all the stops to impress one another as we did that Sunday afternoon. They did a Beltane Fire Dance, we countered with a Manning Tree. They did a Haccombe, we came back with a Sorting Hat. At the end of about an hour and ten minutes, the audience knew they had seen a show of epic proportions.  Monotonous? Ingrams, you know nothing! Of all their dances, I love Jolly Roger. Not taking anything away from all their other dances. Beltane are a wonderful exciting side to watch. The music! The shouting! The dancing! The fishnets! If you watch no other Morris side this year, then try to see Beltane. Or us, obviously! You won't regret it.



I can honestly say that in five years of dancing, never has a weekend gone by so quickly. Never has a weekend been so full of fun. Never have I thought so much "What a great side! And what lovely people!" So thank you Keith, and Joe, Will, and Sue, and Seamo, and Benji, and Ant, Spike, Arwen and Jackie, and anyone else I apologise I've missed off. Thanks for a smashing weekend. And a special thanks to Amy for reminding me what a sentimental old softy I can be when someone says something nice. Especially when I've had a few.

PS If a spare liver was found in the marquee on Sunday afternoon, it'll belong to Dougie, our Glaswegian photographer. They all think they can drink up there.



Monday 24 June 2013

No Sleep 'Til Clun

Big weekend then, with the Upton Folk Festival on Sunday and Clun Green Man Festival on the Bank Holiday Monday. We had decided to go to Upton on the Saturday as well, to watch a bit of the dancing. Angie and Doug agreed to put us up for the night, living as they do close to Upton, so we were well sorted.
We arrived in Upton at around 2ish, and with Angie, Doug and Clive, saw some good acts. Quite a few friends were dancing as well, Lizzie was with Stone the Crows, the hard dancin', hard drinkin' Lancashire border side, and Fi was with Foxs, who do the whole weekend. Bellyfusion were there, and Bourne Borderers too. A great afternoon, watching rather than dancing for a change. And when it was all finished, we had fish and chips on the river front. A great day. We spent the evening in the Swan, always a good place when there's a folk festival on, and slept well.
Sunday dawned bright, dry but a little windy. Angie did us some lovely bacon sandwiches and we had the last of the cat's milk in the tea. Not out of the cat's bowl, you understand, it was milk in the fridge, set aside for the cat. Think I've cleared that one up Angie! Thanks for looking after us!

We were dancing our show spot at 1110am, so we'd all agreed to meet up before 1030 for a quick run through. Practice over, we made our way down to the show spot. We kicked off with a Manning Tree, Lizzie's excellent dance honouring  the so-called witches executed in the 17th and 18th centuries. Jane's Dance, a long dance in the Manx tradition followed. Both got some good applause. "Can you do one more?" said the organiser, "a quick one?" so we finished with a Katie Cruel. Rapturous applause. A quick sprint down to the rugby fields, about a mile away, and we were ready to start the procession. I don't know whether I've mentioned it before, if I have, I apologise. I hate processions.
Reason 1: No two Morris sides process at the same speed. You end up with a mixture of shuffling about on the spot, and sprinting to catch up.
Reason 2: They always seem to go for a least a mile, sometimes two. I'm a fairly stoutish sort of fellow, with small legs. It's hard work for me.
Reason 3: You try walking and playing a big mediaeval drum at the same time. It swings all over the place, gets between your legs, falls off.....
Reason 4: Most processional dances are in fact rubbish. This is in no way a reflection on the writers, it's just more or less impossible to write a dance where you keep moving forward all the time in a medium that is meant for static dancing.
Reason 5: Nobody can hear what's going on. There I am, walking alongside the dancers, banging away for all it's worth, in 4/4 time, and just in front there's a pipe band. Or a Samba band. Or three accordions and a set of English pipes playing something in 6/8.
Reason 6. I could go on all night, but I think I've said enough.
On the upside, when we all get to the other end, we all form a sort of guard of honour, and everybody walks through everybody else, to applause and back slapping, that sort of thing. Until we get to the end, and then nobody knows where we started and we start again. After about an hour, we're done. There, I've just cancelled out the upside.

Anyway, procession over, it was time for lunch. On Dougie's recommendation I immediately ran over to the  Anchor, for a pint of  Sharpe's Doom Bar. Another followed. What a great pint of bitter Doom Bar is! Spicy, malty, fruity and bitter. A meal in a glass. Apparently I had some food to, but I can't for the life of me remember what....

Upton is an interesting festival, in that you just dance where you like. There about a dozen spots, up and down the town, along the waterfront, but you just pick your spot and away you go. Some memories of the afternoon:
Flagcrackers of Craven outside the Swan. Do a magnificent dance called Bedlam. I love theatrical, and this was THEATRE! Brilliant. Watch it when you can!
Bellyfusion, outside the Anchor. I've been trying to get them interested in Tom Waits for a while now, and they've done a dance to a Tom Waits song, just for me! Well, probably not just for me, but that's what they said. It was great! So thank you Angie, it was wonderful!
Good to see Chris Butler-Hall and Rosie, looking so well! Here's looking at you kid! Didn't see your dad though, he was probably in a pub somewhere....Hope you had a good time Steve, see you soon.
All in all, a cracking day, weather held good, some good dancing, company, and beer. Not necessarily in that order. Obviously.

Now how do I describe Clun? Have you seen Deliverance? It's a border town. Right on the border really. From Craven Arms, you drive through Aston on Clun. And Clunton. And eventually you come across this town, nestling in the valley. Of the River Clun. We parked up on a field and walked into town. We walked into this town square, where there were terraced houses, shops, and a pub. A first floor sash window flew up, and some kids looked out, like that scene in The Wicker Man. The sun was shining brightly and some old friends were sitting on the steps of the pub. Iron Men and Severn Gilders were there, ready to start. Drinking or dancing, anybody's guess, but I know what my money was on. They hadn't been at Upton, and we hadn't seen them for...ooh, a week, so hugs and handshakes followed.

They were sensibly dancing in the same spot all day, near the pub. We, as newcomers, had been allocated the spot near the bridge, where all the Green Man/ Ice Queen action kicks off, so we walked down a fairly steep hill to set up. Down at the river, it was packed. Last year, the whole thing had had to be cancelled due to flooding. This year, kids were paddling in the river, people were sunbathing on the grass, and the ice cream vans were doing a roaring trade. After the road had been closed, we started off, to a fairly big and appreciative audience. We raced through a Twiglet, a Titterstone Clee, a Sorting Hat, and a Brimfield. All to wild applause. A Manning Tree, our new Oddington dance, Young Collings, and then disaster struck! During Katie Cruel, Kylie pulled up and hobbled off. Dangerous Steve, quick as a flash, stepped in almost seamlessly and finished the dance. Luckily, we had Jodie, a very qualified nurse with us, and she had a look at Kylie's injury. An Achilles tendon problem. Poor Jodie missed the whole of the Green Man/ Ice Queen action, as she administered to Kylie's heel. Thanks a lot Jodie, for being such a patient nurse!

The Green Man bit over, we were due up the hill and outside the pub again, for an action packed afternoon with the Ironmen and Severn Gilders. Kylie, hobbling over the bridge, spied a chap on a mobility scooter. "You couldn't lend me that to get up the hill could you?" she cheekily asked. He carried on, but seconds later his wife came running back, saying, "he felt guilty watching you struggle, do you want some help?" He very kindly lent Kylie his crutches to walk up the hill with. What a really nice couple!

An excellent afternoon ensued. A few pints of the ever popular Butty Bach from the White Horse,  great dancing and a fabulous time was had by all. Congratulations to Martyn and Sheena for their first dance with Wytchwood, a Pershore Hanky and a  Brimfield respectively. Good to see all our friends from the Ironmen and Severn Gilders again. And a combined Sheepskins to finish off. The good people of Clun have probably never been so comprehensively entertained!

Wednesday 12 June 2013

View From A Bridge

The sun was shining and the excitement intense as we parked up on the Welsh side of the river at Ironbridge. I lugged my drums across the bridge to find Clive, our guitarist already set up and playing his guitar, to nobody in particular. I tossed a few coppers in his bag and told him to get himself a cup of tea.We hung around  a bit and sooner or later, the others began to turn up. Eight sides altogether, here for the second annual Black Meet.

A bit of explanation then.You may have noticed, whilst perusing our photos, or watching our videos on You Tube, that we all have black faces. This is no accident. No forgetting to wash, after a shift down t'pit. Or indeed cleaning the chimney. Since time immemorial, well, about 1500, border morris dancers have sought to disguise themselves by wearing tattered clothing and blacking their faces with soot or coal dust. This was for various reasons; begging was illegal, and so was demanding money with big sticks. Morris dancers frequently found themselves on the wrong side of the law, and as their employers were usually the local magistrates, could find themselves out of a job too. Some of the best accounts we have of border morris dancers, believe it or not, come from magistrates courts records! Also, during the 18th Century, black faced disguise was quite common, not just amongst morris dancers, but amongst violent gangs of robbers and poachers, so much so that the "Black Act" of  1723 made the disguise a capital offence. Happily it was repealed in 1823. In these more complicated times, some sides choose to wear masks, or disguise their faces with different colours, but many border sides still wear black faces as a nod to the tradition. After all, you don't want too many people knowing you're a morris dancer. Last year, Iron Men and Severn Gilders decided to hold a black meet for black faced sides and we, along with Foxs Morris, turned up. This year, many more wanted a part of it.

We stood with Clive on the bridge and watched them turn up. Sill Hill, from Birmingham, Plum Jerkum, from Warwick. Fox's, from Cookley, and the lovely ladies of Aelfgythe from Alvechurch. Us, and Clerical Error, all the way from Flintshire, North Wales. I watched some of them coming across the bridge. "Ay up, shut the bridge, the Welshies are invading!" I shouted. They grinned. As well they might. Around eleven o'clock or thereabouts, we kicked off.We were dancing along with Foxs, turn and turn about. Four dance sides meant that there was plenty of time to rest, watch the other dancers and get some refreshment. I'd had a cup of tea from the excellent Tea Emporium over the road, but by noon, I was ready for some more traditional Morris fare. The Tontine had just opened, so I joined a growing queue at the bar behind that splendid fellow, Graydon, from Shrewsbury Morris, who had just come to watch and take a few photos. He bought me my first one in fact, an excellent pint of  Wye Valley Butty Bach. I took it outside, just in time to join in with a Manning Tree. A great dance this one, written by young Lizzie when she was only sixteen, to commemorate all those so-called witches executed in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.

We finished the dance, and I stood and watched a few more.Chatted a bit, had a little look at the wonderful scenery. This is what the Morris is all about, I thought. We were dancing on the bridge itself, the world's first cast iron bridge, built in 1779. Who built it then? If you said Thomas Telford, like me, you'd be wrong. It was a chap called Abraham Darby III, whose grandad, the first Abraham Darby, had perfected iron smelting with coke instead of coal. I learned all this from a plaque on the bridge. You do get a good education from Morris dancing!

I bought two more pints of beer, one for Graydon, one for me. One o'clock came, and it was time for a lunch break. My wife had already agreed to drive home, so I bought another pint. The Butty Bach being long gone, I had to make do with Bank's Original. Not that that's any hardship of course. We stood on the bridge eating our sandwiches and drinking. The sun was out, it was a glorious Spring day. Quite a few people were watching too, encouraged to get out by the weather. You always seem to perform better when there's a sizeable crowd for some reason, and a few claps and cheers help you along. We certainly got that in the afternoon; Twiglet, in particular, was a triumph. We're up and running with a couple of Oddington Cotswold dances now too, check out the Young Collins on You-tube! Even if Fi's business cards did drop all over the floor.

Around three o'clock then, we started wrapping up, although a few of us then went down to the Malt-house brewery for another session. We did a few more dances, enjoyed another pint, and then headed back up the road to the car park. Luckily, Doug had brought his van down to the brewery car park, so he agreed to take us, and the drums, back up to the bridge. We sat outside the ice cream shop across from the bridge, enjoying the late afternoon sun and an ice cream, and agreed that a good day had been had by all.