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Brazil has the samba, Spain the flamenco, Hawaii the hula. England, too, has its national dance, but one performed by men wearing flower arrangements on their heads and waving hankies in the air. The morris man (along with Black Rod, beefeaters and the bobby on the beat) is the chief standard-bearer for the English love affair with eccentricity — and in the 21st century, he is shaking his knee bells louder than ever. We are, at heart, a backward-looking people, and we cherish our folk traditions — the stranger the better. Many have their roots in lost pagan cere-monies designed to summon spring and ward off bogeymen and sprites — that’s why April and May are at the apex of the eccentric year. But this doesn’t excuse us entirely. Over the centuries, whole new layers of silliness have been added. Every year without fail, for example, people in Allendale, Northumberland, parade with barrels of blazing tar on their heads. They weigh the mayor in High Wycombe, and go fishing for the moon in Huddersfield. In Carhampton, Somerset, they dip toast in cider, hang it from a tree, sing to the tree, then shoot it. Every one of these proceedings sounds like a lost Monty Python sketch — yet not one of them makes it into our top five enjoyably outlandish English days out. There is no self-conscious “zaniness” here. These events happen for two reasons only: because they are a terrific excuse for a communal booze-up, and because they always have been. So put on your coconut kneepads, grab your orange on a stick and join us for a celebration of England’s crackpot country customs.
THE NUTTERS DANCE When? Easter Saturday.
Where? Bacup, Lancashire — a small textile town hemmed in by Pennine moorland. According to English Heritage, it’s the best-preserved mill town in the country.
What happens? You’d be forgiven for thinking things can’t get sillier than morris dancing, but the Britannia Coconut Dancers go the extra mile in the name of oddball entertainment. Like many good things in Britain, this begins in a pub. At 9am, a lovely bunch of eight coconutters emerges from the Travellers’ Rest in a fantastic ensemble comprising clogs, stockings, a white kilt and a turban decked in pompoms and rosettes. It is not, as Trinny and Susannah might say, a good look. The nutters also have their faces blacked, which only adds to the impression that they’ve just staggered out of an explosion in a charity shop. The dancers process around the district, pausing at 20 or so hostelries to perform complex set-piece gyrations. Thought to stem from spring ritual dances, these involve the tapping out of rhythms on wooden discs fastened to their palms, knees and belts. The clattering clog dances take three years to perfect, and the leader, Richard Shufflebottom, has been banging his nuts for more than 40 years.
Given modern Lancashire’s multicultural mix, it may seem politically incorrect to stage a mineworkers’ minstrel show.But, as nutter Ronnie Searle says: “It’s been this way for 150 years. If forced to change, we’d give up altogether.”
Where to stay: the Inn at Whitewell (01200 448222), near Clitheroe, is well worth the drive — a supercivilised inn-hotel in the heart of Bowland; doubles from £94.
The details: Bacup is between Burnley and Rochdale.
BOTTLE KICKING & HARE PIE SCRAMBLE When? Easter Monday.
Where? Hallaton, Leicestershire. With its sloping green and spread of thatch, this is like a Cotswolds village that has moved east to flee the crowds.
What happens? The festivities kick off with the parading of a giant hare pie. Hallaton’s vicar emerges from St Michael’s Church, blesses the pie, then flings it by the greasy handful into the cheering crowd. After that, things get silly. Preparations begin for the Bottle Kicking proper, a murderous, mud-spattered contest between Hallaton and nearby Medbourne. Confusingly, this involves neither bottles nor kicking: at least not by those who treasure their toes. Instead the villagers scrap over three small beer barrels, which first have to be ceremonially decked in ribbons and piped up nearby Hare Pie Bank by a silver band. The casks are released in turn, and the opposing factions attempt to manhandle them downhill to their village boundary. The scrum is rules-free and notoriously bloodthirsty, scattering sheep and St John ambulancemen in its wake. It can last for hours, especially if Medbourne get the upper hand — they have to steamroll a couple of barbed-wire fences on their way to victory.
Why on earth? The Bottle Kicking is recorded in the Enclosure Act of 1770, but is much older. Historians point to the sacrifice of the hare in the Dark Age worship of the goddess Eastre. Romantics prefer the legend of two maidens pursued by a bull, who were saved when a hare bolted into its path. In 1790, the rector tried to ban the event because of its pagan origins — until graffiti appeared on the church wall: “No pie, no parson.” Unable to beat them, the church joined them.
Where to stay: Lake Isle (01572 822951) is an 18th- century restaurant-with-rooms in the market town of Uppingham; doubles £80, B&B.
The details: Hallaton is eight miles north of Market Harborough. Tourist information: 01858 828282.
HOCKTIDE When? Second Tuesday after Easter (this year, April 20).
Where? Hungerford, Berkshire, a characterful country town that’s great for mooching around in antiques shops and messing about in boats. The Kennet & Avon Canal Trust runs trips from the wharf.
What happens? Hocktide must be the most riotously idiosyncratic bit of tax-collecting in the world. It involves citrus fruit, a maniacal blacksmith and lots of gratuitous snogging. At 8am, the town crier blows a hunting horn at Hungerford’s town hall to summon the manorial court. Two “Tutti-men” are then dispatched to exact a toll from all the town’s commoners. For reasons lost to time and sanity, these characters wear top hat and tails, and carry a long pole topped by an orange. Off they go on their rounds, demanding a penny from the man and a kiss from the women, while somebody called the Orange Scrambler hands out fruit in exchange. “If denied entry, you get to break in using ladders,” enthuses Tutti-man Bruce Mayhew, “and there’s a whisky waiting in every house. Some get so sloshed, they are brought back by wheelbarrow.” Finally, a banquet begins, at which a sinister blacksmith turns up with his “chasers” (including Hungerford’s vicar). Their job is to pursue Hocktide first-timers round the hall, sit on them and hammer nails into their heels: a ceremony known as the Shoeing of the Colt.
Why on earth? The rest of us have forgotten Hocktide, a time of parish tithe-paying, mock kidnappings and merriment, but here it has survived — perhaps because it retains a role in the economy. Commoner’s rights were granted to Hungerford by John of Gaunt in the 14th century, and 100 or so households enjoy free grazing and salmon-fishing beside the River Kennet today. Nobody’s sure how pips, pecks and pins got involved.
Where to stay: Fishermans House (01672 515390), in Mildenhall, is a Georgian doll’s house of a place beside the River Kennet; doubles £70, B&B.
The details: Hungerford is just south of the M4 (J14). Tourist information: 01635 30267.
THE HUNTING OF THE EARL OF RONE When? Spring Bank Holiday Monday (this year, May 31).
Where? At Combe Martin, a cute North Devon seaside resort — perfect if you find nearby Ilfracombe too racy.
What happens? This is the archetypal Maytime knees-up, complete with a swirly-skirted hobby horse to goose the village maidens and a skipping fool dressed in regulation jangly hat and slippers. But it piles on the peculiarity with a few fathomless quirks all of its own. Three days of revelry reach a climax when a beribboned band of teenage “grenadiers” sets off for Lady’s Wood. They are out to hunt down the Earl of Rone, a woebegone figure in a sackcloth smock, a grotesque mask and (a touch of genius, this) a necklace of ship’s biscuits. Once captured, the poor earl is mounted backwards on a donkey and marched into town. It’s quite a journey: Combe Martin has the longest village high street in Britain (two miles), and it would be rude not to stop for refreshment at all six pubs en route. At every halt, the Earl is ritually “shot” by the grenadiers and slumps from his ass, only to be revived again by the carousing hobby horse and fool. At last he is put out of his misery and flung into the sea.
Why on earth? Some say the inspiration was the second Earl of Tyrone, who fled after an Irish rebellion in 1607. Shipwrecked off Devon (hence his attachment to biscuits), he was apprehended and executed here at Combe Martin. But it’s clear that the event’s roots lie in a much older fertility rite exorcising the feared bogeyman of the wood. Its current incarnation is a 1970s revival, because it was banned in 1837 after an all-too-real fatality. Somebody fell down the steps of a pub. Where to stay: the Rising Sun (01598 753223), on Lynmouth harbour, is a 14th-century smugglers’ inn with peerless views; doubles from £98.
The details: Combe Martin is three miles east of Ilfracombe. Call 01271 883319. THE BURNING OF BARTLE When? The Saturday nearest St Bart’s Day (this year, August 21). Where? West Witton, Wensleydale, a dyed-in-the-wool sheep-farming village in classic dry-stone Dales country. What happens? This begins innocently enough, with flower shows and fancy dress. But at dusk, things take a Plutonian turn. A strange figure stalks West Witton’s high street — Owd Bartle, a man with dirt in his hair and evil in his eyes. He is an ill-favoured effigy, made in secrecy using straw for stuffing and flashing red lights for eyes. With his white beard and sooty girth, he has the look of an infernal Father Christmas. He is escorted around the village by a “chief executioner”, stopping in time-honoured turn at selected pubs and houses. Between pints, the executioner chants a doggerel that relates the tale of Old Bartle’s capture: “At Hunter’s Thorn he blew his horn; At Capplebank Stee he brak his knee; At Grisgill Beck he brak his neck ” Finally, the dummy is paraded to Grassgill, thrown on a bonfire and incinerated, much to the merriment of the crowd. Why on earth? The first record is from the 1500s, so Bartle is older than Guy Fawkes. He is said to have been a local sheep-stealer who was pursued down the fellside from Penhill Crags until, neck broken and feeling suitably penitent, he was hauled off and burnt at the stake. However, the true origins lie in the pre-Christian worship of the harvest god: and if you’ve seen what happens to Edward Woodward in The Wicker Man, you’ll know what we mean. Where to stay: the Wensleydale Heifer (01969 622322), bang in the village, offers superior B&B; doubles from £72. The details: five miles west of Leyburn. Call 01969 623069.
For more spring strangeness, visit www.england-in-particular.info Next page: Britain's weird world championships Britain's weird world championships Shin-kicking: part of the Cotswold Olimpicks, staged since Jacobean times at Chipping Campden, Gloucestershire, this is the noble art of grappling with your opponent while trying to boot lumps out of his legs.
Gurning: held at Egremont Crab Fair, Cumbria, since 1267. Contestants spend 30 seconds attempting their best Cilla Black impressions while praying the wind doesn’t change. Serious folk may prefer the pipe-smoking contest. Snail racing: more than 200 snails slug it out over a 13-inch course at Congham, Norfolk. The winner gets a lettuce-stuffed tankard; and the record is held by the 1995 champion, Archie — 2min 20sec, or 0.0005mph. A bit faster than cricket, then. Worm-charming: staged at Willaston, Cheshire, where a school field is divided into 10ft squares and competitors try all kinds of exotic methods to draw out the wigglers. Starts 2pm; early birds not welcome. Flounder-tramping: for the uninitiated, that’s treading on fish. Underequipped anglers gather at Palnackie, in Dumfries & Galloway, and proceed to stamp in the Urr estuary until a flatfish passes by. Glory goes to whoever can trap the most flounders using feet alone. |
