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 Happily it was repealed in 1823.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.
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