Upton upon Severn Folk Festival – the one where I didn’t dance the Upton Stick Dance

First, a quick apology. I’m sorry I haven’t blogged for so long. Phew that’s done.

I have made this comeback due to a large number of people begging me to start writing this blog again (okay, just one, Clare, but she is very persuasive) and I suppose our weekend in Upton is a fitting way to relaunch my blogging career (if that’s what you can call it).

Well, as usual, I took the Friday off work and after a preliminary shopping trip to buy our weekly shopping and a few essentials for the weekend (mainly beer), Mr Dark Morris Dancer (aka Greg) and I set off for Upton upon Severn. It was an uneventful journey and we reached the campsite in good time and put up our new (well, new since I last blogged) Outwell Rockwell 3 tent – a wonder of camping technology: tall enough to stand in but small enough to leave room in the car for our other camping essentials and a large selection of musical instruments.

I need to digress here.

I now have the following instruments:

A piano with no name (no use for Morris because I can only play classical music on it)
Jeffrey, the piano accordion (a slightly less heavy instrument than the piano)
Señor Parp, the tarota (it has no volume control and the volume is set to eleven)
Ike, the ukulele (the second lightest of the collection)
A harmonica with no name (I can’t play this, yet)

Anyway, digression over. Once the tent was up (with the help of the wonderful Ady and Graham), we started on the beer we had brought. Once I had drunk enough to feel a little bit uncomfortable about moving my car, I was asked to do that very same thing by Gaynor and Keith, so they could fit their campervan into the Crows’ Corral. I may have been a little bit reluctant at first: after all there were a number of other cars, a caravan or two, a few rugby posts and a couple of portaloos that could have been damaged in the process but I quickly saw reason and moved it and managed to damage precisely nothing.

To cut a long day short, we got our tea from the fish and chip shop, I managed to mix beer, wine and whisky and, after a long, interesting and amusing conversation with our fellow crows in the Village Hall (an enormous awning attached to Graham and Anne’s caravan), we went to bed and I woke up without a hangover. Amazing.

I started Saturday by cadging a cup of coffee from Pete and Elaine and some suncream from Anthony, and eating my muesli. Anne had already mentioned that she had a nearly full carton of soya milk that she had no further use for, so I went to her caravan and relieved her of the soya flavoured burden.

We then got into our kit and we all wandered off into Upton Central, where we congregated outside the Plough to share a spot with a few other sides, including Bakanalia. I have to mention now that it was very hot and I am practically a white walker, so it didn’t take me long to go into the Plough and ask for them to fill my tankard with water, thus eliciting a few remarks of “You’re starting a bit early”, to which I replied “This beer is watery”.

A thirsty crow drinking water or maybe Guinness

We started with Ragged Crow and I didn’t dance, so I played Ike. We then waited for the other sides to dance and I disappeared back into the pub for more watery “beer”. We were going to do Upton Stick at this spot and Pete had pretty well ordered me to dance it opposite him but unfortunately John, our Foreman, left me out of the set, so I played Ike and Pete had to make do with another dancer.

My memory is a little hazy now, so I’m going to have to stop trying to give a blow by blow account of proceedings. I remember having excellent chips for dinner from one of the chip vans. I remember speaking to Ian from Carreg Las and reminding him about us discussing my ambition to own and learn to play a shawm at the session at Clerical Error’s 25th birthday bash and showing him Señor Parp. He had been very supportive of the idea and I was looking forward to him hearing me play, even though it could easily have been quite an ordeal for him.

After that conversation, Stone the Crows did Ashpole (with a little bit of good natured heckling from the Ironmen [after all it is adapted from one of their dances]) and I played Señor Parp and managed not to squeak too much. Ian later came by and complimented me on my playing, saying he liked the counter melodies and that it gave the music a medieval feel.

There was also a stick incident involving Alan, who is a postman by trade. Obviously he was unable to control his postman instincts and upon finding a stick shaped hole, he posted his stick through a grid into the surface water drain in the road. I think he was mortified but that didn’t stop us Crows taking the proverbial.

When we had finished, we went back to the campsite and Gaynor presented me with a bottle of Black Sheep ale in thanks for moving my car the day before. I thought that was very kind of her and told her if she ever needs me to move my car again, I will do, willingly, even by a hundred miles. I then got my bottle opener and started on it.

Saturday is the day when we have tea and cakes and I had baked Boston Brownies specially for the occasion. Anne had baked a vegan cake (which is why she had the soya milk) and Mary Roach had also brought vegan cake, so there was definitely enough cake to satisfy a greedy vegan like me. After the cakes, we went to the Swan to find a session and we found one in one of the back rooms. It was the sort of session that makes me want to really raise my game and I quickly identified an accordion player who had a style I would really like to emulate – punchy and syncopated. I tried my best with the tunes I didn’t know and joined in with the ones I did.

At one point, Clare came in (she had just arrived in Upton) and said that Mary T was in one of the other rooms and required our presence there, so we made our apologies and I explained it was us, not them and we went to join Mary. There was nice mixture of instruments: a couple of accordions (including Jeffrey, of course), some fiddles, some guitars and a soprano sax, to name but a few. We were later joined by Alistair Gillies of the Ironmasters with his soprano sax and he sat next to me. No pressure there Sharon!

He started off a few tunes and one seemed to keep going for rather longer than the usual three repetitions. My suspicions were confirmed when at the end, he announced that he had decided to keep going until he got it right. I responded by saying it’s a good job I don’t do that or we’d be there the whole night and probably most of the following day too.

After a while, I decided to be sensible and suggested to Greg and Mark that we return to the campsite, so I could get some kip and we made our way back. I then discovered that the torch I had so sensibly brought was probably only good for illuminating the valve on the filling loop for the boiler (located in the loft), which we have to repressurise on a regular basis, and not for illuminating the way back to our tent in an unlit campsite. Fortunately Mark had a torch that shines with the light of a thousand suns, so we were able to get back without tripping over any guy ropes.

Postman Crow with stick attached

Sunday was destined to be as sunny and hot as Saturday, which was a shame because I had managed to get sunburnt on Saturday and I didn’t want to repeat the experience. Alan had a stick attached to his arm with gaffer tape. We all found this highly amusing, although I’m sure that the removal of the gaffer tape would have been even more amusing had I witnessed it. We had a show spot at 10.10, so we had to get up and out pretty quickly. Our show dances were Cuckoos Nest and Crows Nest and I danced in both, so Ike and Señor Parp had to sit in a corner and sulk. They didn’t sulk for long though, because Ike had an outing for Loxley Barratt where I was able to use the pick I’d bought from Pete Grassby’s stall and Señor Parp came out for Sod Hall.

The sun had the same intensity as it has on the day of Meursault’s mother’s funeral in L’Étranger and I was doing my best to avoid it. Fortunately, I had managed to get cadged suncream on all exposed bits of skin so the sunburn did not get any worse. I had also bought a bucket hat and was wearing it between performances. My consumption of water rocketed, although there were some halves of Guinness thrown in for good measure.

After a day of dancing, we finished with a Worcester Hey in about 28 degrees Celsius. I declined to dance because I was so hot and feeling really uncomfortable, so I played Ike, using another pick I had bought from Pete Grassby. We then went back to the campsite and retired to the village hall once we had changed and cleaned up.

I was beginning to feel a bit ill. I already had a heavy cold, which I could ignore while we were doing things like dancing or playing in sessions but once I was inactive it would tap me on the shoulder and say “Hi, I’m here. Look, here’s an irritating cough. Try sneezing, it will produce about three gallons of snot, most of which will fly onto your t-shirt or some poor unsuspecting passer by”. I think I also had heatstroke: white walkers don’t really cope with heat too well.

My first thought was food and my second was Chinese. There were some people amongst us, doubting Thomases all, who told me the Chinese was shut. That didn’t seem to make economic sense and at about fiveish, Greg and I went to investigate and found it open, although, at this early hour not exactly full to bursting with punters. We ordered food and chopsticks and took it back to the village hall where I slowly and determinedly demolished my Szechuan Bean Curd and rice.

Come 8 O’clock I was ready for bed and pleading the cold and heatstroke, I retired to the tent. I had 12 hours broken sleep, which equates to about 8 hours unbroken sleep and, although I didn’t wake refreshed, I was ready to face the world again.

We then had the job of packing everything back into the i10 and that done we made our way back in convoy with Mark along the A49 all the way to the Alvanley Arms in Cotebrook, Cheshire, where we stopped for a meal, and then made our separate ways back home, thus ending yet another great weekend at the Upton upon Severn Folk Festival.

One last thing, I haven’t mentioned all the sides we danced with but I’ve tagged them plus a couple more who I like and who I saw at Upton this year. Hopefully we’ll get a chance to share a spot with you all another year.

Upton Folk Festival, Sunday: broken bones, processions and further assorted excitements

We got up on Sunday (as opposed to crawling out of bed) well rested and refreshed. We made our way to the clubhouse for a shower and breakfast. I had my third Full English of the festival and once it was consumed, Greg and I set back off to the tent. As we were walking along the ancient fortifications surrounding the pitches and club house, I noticed somebody at the bottom of the earthworks, sitting down, right foot elevated and being attended to by a paramedic. I had one of those moments: he looks familiar; he looks like Mark; he is Mark. Seeing that Brent was stood with him just cemented the deal.

Greg and I made our way down to him to ask what was up. We said hello to Mark and Brent and Brent immediately apprised us of the situation. Mark had a broken leg and was not going to be in a fit state to walk or drive, so we were going to have to pack up his things, arrange for his car to be returned home and also for him to be taken home too. We went back to the corral to get all this in motion. Most of the Crows were aware of what had happened and the update galvanised them into action. We managed to locate Mark’s car key quite easily (he had told us where to look) and his tent was down and packed away in record time and everything else loaded into the car.

We then needed a volunteer to drive his car back to his home, although the idea was mooted that we try his breakdown provider. This was duly checked and (eventually) they confirmed they could do it in the next 10 days. This was not going to be quick enough so we did a quick canvas of all the drivers there and one of our number, Katie, volunteered.

Once we had done everything we could, we went to line up for the procession, which started at 12pm. We were quite near the back, so we didn’t start processing until about 12.30. We did our normal thing: running into the crowd and scaring people (preferably children) and, where there were no people, scaring cars or lampposts or litter bins (but not dogs), with Charlotte out front waving our flag. I tried to scare a photographer and only managed to make my way into a rather nifty photograph of the procession.

Upton upon Severn Procession. Photo courtesy of Megan Jane Thomas

The procession ended rather conveniently outside the Plough and once everybody had processed and then dispersed, we went into the pub for a beer. All this processing can be thirsty work. We did a couple of dances outside the Plough and then we all dispersed for lunch with the agreement that we would all reassemble at the Star for our second stage spot at 2.15.

Hobos Morris were performing when we arrived after lunch and after them would be another act and then us. I had chosen White Ladies and Crows Nest for this spot and I got the dancers lined up beforehand so everybody would know where they would be. I then wandered off to talk to some of the members of Plum Jerkum, whom I had spotted just before. I should actually come clean here. I had discovered less than a week previously that Plum Jerkum was the mysterious Morris side I had seen in Ludlow in 2006 or thereabouts that had eventually led to me becoming a Border Morris dancer. I really felt the need to let them know about their service (or is it disservice?) to the Morris. While I was bending their ears, I managed to persuade one of their number to do a badge swap. It is now sitting very proudly right at the front of my hat and there is no way at all that it is moving from there.

Anyway, back to the dancing and we did White Ladies first. The dance went well but the highlight for me was Charlotte, our flag bearer of the procession, running through the set quite unexpectedly. It worked and I have been campaigning tirelessly ever since to have her officially named as the Fool of the side. Crows Nest did not go as well as White Ladies, in fact it went completely wrong during Crooked House Hey but it went wrong spectacularly and with consummate style and panache and, although I somehow swapped places with Keith in the set (I still cannot work out how), we made it to the end and finished with style.

After us were Wreckers Morris of Tamar Valley. They announced their second dance as one they had learned from us, Woodhouse Bog. Graham, our chief melodeon player, went to join the band and, in anticipation of the big finish that we have for the dance, I made my way over with a tambourine, ready to join in with gusto at the end. It was a truly wonderful collaboration and I was suitably impressed with the twist they gave the dance. We finish with two of the smaller members of the team battling it out like titans; they finish with the biggest and burliest members. It was a big finish and I bruised my hand bashing the tambourine as hard as I could at the end.

Wreckers Morris of Tamar Valley’s band. Graham just out of shot.

After that we went back to the Plough and joined Carreg Las, who were already dancing outside. They also dance Much Wenlock and we decided it would be nice to get a mixed set up for the dance and have a mixed band. The dance duly went ahead and was very successful and I had a chat with some of them to see if there were any other dances we have in common. There is one other, Tinners, so we decided to mix that up too. Carreg Las dance a different and longer version of Tinners so we divided the dancers up: two of them into sets with Crows to dance the Crows version and me in a set with two of them to dance their version. They did a quick talk through and then it started. I did rather better than we had done with Crows Nest and I don’t think I put a foot wrong. It’s nice having to think on the hoof from time to time.

We returned to the campsite after some more dancing and I got out of kit and into civvies and removed my make-up. Wild Thyme Morris were doing a border workshop and, as it was Wild Thyme that had got Anthony into Morris, he couldn’t resist going along. Greg and I decided to go as well because it would be fun. I wanted to pose as a non-Morris dancer but Greg decided to wear his hat, completely blowing our cover. We learnt some simple Border dances and also Cuckoos Nest and Tinners and I got to wear some pink tatters.

After getting tea from the chip shop (including for me a battered sausage, fnaar fnaar) it was back to the Swan en masse for more drinking and a session. Brent sang The Rawtenstall Annual Fair, a perennial favourite with the Crows and Charlotte was keen to sing but, as she doesn’t know any of the songs our musicians can play and they don’t know any of the songs she knows, she had to improvise and make words up, which she did to comical effect. I was asked to sing the Nutting Girl so I did and managed to remember the words this time. Sitting at a nearby table was Clocs Canton and their concertina player had been joining in the session. As I was singing, he walked over to where we were sat and at the end of the song, he played the Nutting Girl Jig. It was just like on Morris On!

After more drinking and more music, I sang again, this time Last Day at T’Mill (or as I prefer to pronounce it, Last Day at the Mill), a lovely song I’ve learnt from Great Grandson of Morris On (no wonder Ashley Hutchings is my hero). It seemed to be appreciated, which always comes as a surprise to me. There was more beer and more music and then the pub closed, so we went back to the club house for the late night session. I was by this time very tired indeed and sulked and only drank water until Greg relented and we went back to the tent. It meant we were not invited into the showers for the session (Stuart and Anthony were) but did mean I got more than 3 hours sleep so I would be in a fit state for Monday.

Upton Folk Festival 2014, Saturday: hangovers, dog bites, illness and washboards

When I had managed to extricate myself from my bed on Saturday and after a coffee provided by our kindly drummer, Anne, I went with Greg to the club house for a Full English breakfast. This was the first time I had ever tried to combat a hangover with a Full English and I am happy to announce that the score at full time was Hangover 0-1 Full English. I will probably revert to the camomile tea hangover cure now but it was a happy experiment for me.

We then went back to our corral and had our first official meeting of the festival. There Greg exhorted the team to go out there, show them what we’re made of (in my case about 60% beer) and enjoy ourselves. Those not already in kit got into kit and then we made our way into Upton but on our way, we were waylaid by some swings: to be precise Richard and I were. Actually, this was not the first time Crows had been on the playground: Greg had gone head first down the slide very drunkenly the previous evening when we were making our way to the clubhouse but I digress.

Our stage spot was at 11.00am and we were there in plenty of time, so we went to dance outside The Plough first and in true Crows’ tradition, we started off with a Ragged Crow. At the end of the dance the dancers rushed out into the crowd like we do and disaster struck! One of our dancers, Carol, was bitten by a dog. It broke the skin and there was much consternation, as she was not up to date with her tetanus jabs. She went off to a chemist with Jo to get dressings and advice. I was concerned because I had lost two of our dancers in one fell swoop and another already had a doctor’s note, although she was okay with the idea of doing one or two of the less strenuous dances.

After another couple of dances, the walking wounded returned and she was happy to continue dancing. It was, by now, time to go to the stage, which was a large space outside The Star Inn. I had already earmarked the dances for this spot and fortunately, even with bronchitis and dog bites, we did not need to change them. We started with another Ragged Crow and this time I did dance and at the end we all rushed into the crowd and nobody got bitten. I rushed at some Alvechurch Morris men, whom I had spotted before, started chatting and then remembered I had two more dances to do. I made my way back and got into the set for the next dance, the Upton upon Severn Stick Dance (to give it its Sunday name) and that went very well and then we finished the set with our version of The Iron Men’s Ashford, which we have changed ever so slightly and renamed Ashpole.

Ashpole from the ground in Chorley (nobody in Upton was brave enough to attempt a comparable shot)

All the dances went well and I don’t think anybody put a foot wrong, so we were flushed with our success and the announcement that Stone the Crows were in the lead for inventive and amusing introductions (Greg had said something about us being the biggest and best Border Morris side in Lancashire. Oh and the only Border Morris side in Lancashire) only added to the gloss.

After that, Greg announced to the side that it was lunch time and told us to meet in a predetermined place at a predetermined time (no, I don’t remember where or when, now) and then he, Mark and I all went in search of lunch. We found it in a café called The Secret Mess. We then returned to the predetermined place at the predetermined time (it might have been The Plough). I decided that because we were at Upton, we ought to do the Upton upon Severn Hanky dance. There was a slight hitch, though. There were six crows there who could dance it but one of them had a doctor’s note and I had already agreed not to make her dance anything too strenuous and if Upton Hanky is anything, it’s too strenuous. However, I was not to be daunted, so we decided to get Stuart, one of our melodeon players and one of the most adaptable dancers I know (i.e. he can wing anything) and put him in the set. I’m not overly cruel, so I agreed to do a walk through out of sight. Unfortunately, I only managed half a walk through before Greg was frantically calling us back because it was our turn, so Stuart was thrown in at the deep end with only one armband. I needn’t have bothered with the armband, he was brilliant and we actually looked like we knew what we were doing.

After that and after a couple more dances, I decided to do an Upton Stick. This is one of the dances known by most of the dancers and it is an ideal opportunity to get some of our more inexperienced dancers up. What had barely touched my consciousness, though, was that just down the road from us (and in earshot) Alvechurch Morris were doing exactly the same dance. I think I may have committed worse faux pas but it would be pushing it. However, their musicians seemed to take it well and even suggested a mass Upton Stick but it wasn’t to be, so instead we borrowed their washboard man for Black Widow. He didn’t have to dance it, he just had to join in on his washboard. Which he did and very good it was too. I would have liked to have kidnapped him and kept him for the full weekend but the rest of the Crows wouldn’t let me, so he was allowed to rejoin his side.

We then went in search of another dance spot and ended up just down the road from the Swan and just up from Pete Grassby’s (of the Aardvark Ceilidh Band fame) Melodeon Repair centre and music stall, where Stony Steppers were already dancing. I would have liked to stood and watched Stony Steppers because they are very good but I had to organise our dances. It was a narrow space and we needed dances that would not take up too much room, so Ashpole, Crows Nest and Mr Ben were right out. Instead we did a Black Widow amongst others and, after a few more dances (turn and turn about with Stony Steppers) we decided we were too hot and bothered and retired to the pub for a well earned beer.

Stony Steppers. Photo courtesy of Stony Steppers.

I wasn’t the first to the bar by a long way and I asked Graham, our chief melodeon player, who coincidentally has very similar taste in beer to me, what he was drinking. It transpired he was drinking Hereford Pale Ale, a tipple I had last had in Shrewsbury, and remembering it was good, I went forthwith to the bar and ordered a half pint. It was as good as I remembered and I was soon back there and ordering another.

We may have done some more dancing or we may have not: it’s all a bit hazy now but we did eventually go back to the campsite. One of our dancers had mysteriously disappeared during the day and it turned out she was another casualty. She had developed some worrying symptoms, so her husband had taken her to A & E. They came back to the campsite later on (I think I was in bed by then) and we found out the next morning she had a kidney infection. She was returned to us with strong anti-biotics and pain killers but unfortunately, would not get another dance.

Before then, Greg, Mark and I all went for a Chinese, while Anthony went for some chips. There was also a party of Crows who had gone for an Indian but as Greg’s stomach had been complaining all day after having been drowned in beer the previous evening, he decided not to risk it. He, Mark and I therefore returned to the campsite with Anthony and consumed our meals. I think Mark was tired because he dropped off after he had finished his Chinese, quite a feat really in a camping chair.

Greg and I decided we would not go to the pub and instead went to bed at a sensible hour. There would, after all, be plenty of time for the pub on Sunday…

Upton Folk Festival 2014, Friday: tents, drinking and more drinking and some ear-bending

One of the regular dates for Stone the Crows Border Morris is Upton Folk Festival, which takes place every May Day bank holiday weekend. This is something Greg and I have never done, Greg having been completely averse to camping until last year when Simon, our then Squire, managed to persuade him that camping doesn’t necessarily have to be the worst experience you could possibly have. This year we put our names down for Upton and went and bought a tent (having used a borrowed one last year). It looks like we’re quite the converts now.

The actual dancing at Upton takes place on the Saturday, Sunday and Monday but of course you have to travel down on the Friday and having had experience of pitching the tent in pitch black last year (well, Greg did most of the pitching and I only pitched in once the difficult bit had been done), I decided to ask for a half day holiday, so we could get to Upton in plenty of time and pitch the tent in daylight. The leave was duly granted and Greg, not wanting to be upstaged by me, got a day’s holiday, thus enabling him to do vital preparatory work like getting the tent, airbed, sleeping bags and all the other camping paraphernalia out of their various storage locations and piling them up in front of our front door ready to pack into the car.

I went to work and gradually got giddier and giddier throughout the half day until 1 O’clock struck and I raced for the door like a whippet. Well, like an ancient, arthritic whippet. Once home we started to pack the car but I noticed a slight problem: the airbed still had air in it from last August, so I very expertly rolled it up, folded it up, knelt on it (thereby expelling the air) and then packed it at half its previous size into the car. Once everything was in the car (there wasn’t much space: we had quite a lot of stuff and it’s a small car) we set off on our epic journey. I decided to use the motorways and the M6 was reasonably clear, although traffic crawled over the Thelwall Viaduct and on various other stretches and going onto the M5 proved less traumatic than on previous occasions (when I have been reduced to tears). The M5 was less generous and we were brought to a total standstill at points but we still made it to Upton in a reasonable time.

The tent after pitching. I have circled it because it’s not obvious and I wouldn’t want you to miss it. Photo courtesy of Frances Judge.

We got to pitch the tent in daylight and with the assistance of Brent (who is a master-tent-pitcher), who gave us some handy hints (which I will remember but Greg won’t) about pegging out guy ropes to keep it upright. I then put in the bedroom and the porch groundsheet, pumped up the airbed, made the bed and transported all the stuff we would need for the weekend into the tent. While all this was going on, Phil from Bunnies from Hell wandered into our corral for a chat. Greg went over and introduced himself and when I emerged from the tent and had managed to persuade my back to straighten up, I went over to meet him too. Phil informed us that he had decided to give Border Morris a general amnesty for the weekend and then went on to explain why exactly he doesn’t like Border Morris.

After this, the side decided that we had waited long enough and it was time to set off to sample the various ales available at the various beer festivals in the town. Our first stop was at the White Lion. We did a brief reconnoitre and found not-at-all-Newby Pete with his wife, Elaine in the front bar but there was no room for another 6 or 8 people, so we went to the beer garden. There was a good selection of ales, so I unhooked my trusty tankard and went to order my first half. I have no idea at all now what I drank but it was good and I went back for more. While we were there, Richard, our youngest member, sat on everybody’s knee (well everybody who would let him), as if he was trying to find the most comfortable one and Brent told one of his jokes, which I have, thankfully, since forgotten. I do, however, remember the first joke he ever told me, which I will reproduce here. Look away now if you are of a nervous disposition.

Q. Why do farts smell?

A. So deaf people will appreciate them.

After a few more drinks a decision was taken to move onto the Swan Hotel, where there was another beer festival. I was to become quite well acquainted with the barman at the Swan beer festival over the weekend. I must have had a few because after a while I was persuaded to sing and chose The Nutting Girl. Part way through the first verse, I realised that when drunk I tend to forget the words and had to mumble and slur the bits I’d forgotten. Singing the other verses did not improve my memory and I estimate that I slurred/mumbled at least 15 words during my performance. Fortunately, I was surrounded by people in various states of inebriation and they really did not notice.

Not-Nick, on the left and Dark Morris Dancer on the right at Shrewsbury and not a bent ear in sight.

At the Swan, we saw Martyn from the Iron Men, whom we had originally met at Shrewsbury and renewed our acquaintance with at the Black Meet. With him was their foreman, whom we had also met at Shrewsbury and renewed our acquaintance with at the Black Meet. Now, for some reason, Greg had got it into his head that he was called Nick but it appears he had got it wrong because he is not Nick; he is Paul. I was by this time quite drunk and, although I don’t tend to act the fool completely and do silly things like dancing on tables and stuff like that, I do tend to become pretty garrulous when drunk and poor Not-Nick had to bear the brunt of my garrulousness while Greg and Martyn discussed squire-like things. Anthony and Mark (also Crows) stayed with us (I have no idea why, they wouldn’t have got a word in edgeways) and when the bars closed, we moved onto the Rugby Club, where there was a late bar.

I had another half in there and after a mouthful or two I realised I had probably had enough. No matter, I continued to bend Not-Nick’s ear, conversing on subjects as diverse as my 90 year old father, my 90 year old father and my 90 year old father. He very politely appeared to listen, although he may have had trouble concentrating on what I was saying: I suspect my speech may have been somewhat slurred by now. Greg and Martyn were still exchanging notes on being squire and Anthony and Mark were… Well, I don’t remember now, I was too busy talking at Not-Nick.

Well, at 2.15am or thereabouts, we staggered out of the clubhouse, stepped gingerly down the earthworks (presumably some kind of ancient fortification erected at some period lost in the mists of time) and somehow managed to find our tent (I think we managed this last because I had taken a torch with me, which is unexpectedly organised of me) and went to bed. Being rather the worse for wear, I didn’t wrap up enough and every time Greg had to get up to relieve himself (rather a lot of times), I was painfully aware of the cold. However, we made it through the night and didn’t die of hypothermia and when my alarm went off at some unearthly hour (before 10am, anyway), I was forced to get up because we were going to be dancing on one of the stages at 11.00.

And I must leave it there so as not to break my no more than 1500 words rule but I will be back with Saturday, Sunday and Monday…

The Black Meet, an attempt at appearing NOT to be a Morris Dancer

Every now and again, I get a chance to be a Morris Spectator. It is quite an unusual occurrence but it has been known. I had one such chance on Sunday 27th April, when I went with Greg and our friend Mark to the Black Meet in Ironbridge. Being a spectator has its advantages: I don’t have to herd any cats (Border Morris dancers), I don’t have to worry about getting things wrong, I can take notes, watch other sides get it wrong (oh, they do occasionally, you know) and get ideas for new old dances.

It was Mark’s idea and I am very grateful that he suggested it because it was a great day out. It started relatively early: Ironbridge is a fair distance from sunny Lytham St Annes. We drove to Mark’s and then he drove us the rest of the way to Ironbridge. After finding somewhere to park (not an easy job), we walked back into town and headed for the bridge where we had seen masses of Morris dancers as we drove past. There were actually two dance spots: one on the bridge and the other on the car park opposite and on the car park opposite were the Ironmen, so we quickly decided we would have a look at them first.

They were dancing with a few other sides including Alvechurch Morris, a border morris side from Worcestershire and Wytchwood Morris from Kidderminster. I was trying to remain incognito and to look like a member of the public who knows nothing about Morris and I think I was doing rather well. However, Martyn, the Ironmen’s squire, who came over to where I was standing, spotted me and said hello. Fortunately, I don’t think my cover was blown at that point but it was a close thing.

This particular spot was only available for a short while and then the various teams had to join the others on the bridge. I noticed a small group of Morris men people chatting and decided to take a photo: they were from two different sides and it was nice to see the détente. After snapping them, I got talking to them and, forgetting myself completely, blew my cover and announced that not only am I a Morris dancer, I am also foreman of Stone the Crows. So much for incognitoness.

Two Wytchwood members discussing important Morris issues with an Alvechurch member.

Then we moved to the bridge where we were treated to displays of fabulous Morris from various other sides. At one point, we decided we needed some liquid refreshment and went to the pub across the road, the Tontine Hotel. There I unclipped my trusty little tankard from my belt (this disguise as a non-Morris dancer really wasn’t going well) and had a half of Shropshire Gold, which went down a treat. As it was a tankard, I was free to take it back across the road and lean against a bollard watching Silurian Morris. Silurian Morris is one of the original border Morris revival sides, they perform traditional dances only and at least one of their members also tries to nick unsuspecting audience members’ (unsuspecting female audience members) beers. However, I hung on to my tankard tenaciously and gave him a stern ticking off. He was in the middle of a dance, though, and had already buggered off before I had managed to get my first “Tut” out.

I also saw performances from Plum Jerkum, Ælfgythe and Severn Gilders. Wytchwood danced again and so did Alvechurch, who did a dance that so impressed me, I felt a desperate need to learn it myself and teach it to Stone the Crows. I approached the man I had photographed before and asked him what its name is. He told me it is called Bromsberrow Heath and helpfully told me there is a video of it on YouTube, which I have since found. I then asked him what the music for it is and felt a complete numpty because I had been particularly entranced by the fact they were dancing it to British Grenadiers while I was watching it but had then promptly forgotten about it straight afterwards.

Later on, I was up on the bridge watching the Severn Gilders and was highly impressed by a ten-woman wheel, which they kept completely straight. We have a six-person wheel in Ratty, which we have difficulty keeping at an obtuse angle, so you can imagine how impressed I was. I did not manage to get a photo of this feat of engineering but I think I have one from the same dance… Well, there are a lot of Gilders in the shot.

Severn Gilders, my favourite Northwest Clog side.

While I was watching them, Greg appeared with a huge collection of badges. I am rather partial to a Morris badge myself, so he pointed me in the right direction and I went and acquired an Ironmen and Severn Gilders badge and a Wytchwood badge. After that and some more Morris, we decided to get some dinner and some more beer.

After the break, we went back and watched more Morris, took shelter in the Tontine Hotel from a sudden deluge and then everybody went to the Malthouse, just down the road (but in the opposite direction from the car). There were further displays of great Border Morris there and the final dance was a massed Sheepskins, in which I did not participate (staying true to my role as spectator only). After that, the Ironmen walked around throwing flowers from their hats to the audience, something I have not previously witnessed. I picked up one of the flowers, tried it behind my ear and then gave it to a little girl who seemed rather disappointed that she had picked up fewer flowers than her sister.

We then returned to the car and stopping only to eat at the Alvanley Arms on the way home, we made our way back to Mark’s and thence to our place. Although I had fooled nobody, I had rather enjoyed my day as a non-Morris dancer and I think I will definitely give it another try.