From our Horse’s mouth……
Friday
Once again it was a great joy for Yateley Morris Men to be asked to dance at the Countess of Carnarvon’s extravaganza at Downton Abbey, sorry, Highclere Castle (I’ve been watching far too much telly while stabled in Ross’s garage). There had been some concern that the event might be cancelled out of respect to the recently late Queen, but this would have caused great inconvenience and disappointment to the hundreds of people due to attend, so it went ahead.
I’m told that a small but select bunch of the Men dined at the Woodpecker at Wash Water and camped (if you can call the luxury of motor homes and caravans “camping”) at our old haunt, Oakley Farm, on the Friday night, where they were delighted to be reacquainted with the incomprehensibly thickly accented guardian. The rest of us turned up bright and early on Saturday, including myself, having been rescued from Chateau Healey (Ross having decided to go on holiday!) by my chum, Mark, who also brought the Foolish paraphernalia for Tom.
Saturday
We gathered at Highclere at 9 am, and I was delighted to be reunited with old chum and now Country Member, Peter, who has joined Lyme Morris in deepest Dorset; as is the way of things they do some dances quite differently to YMM, so he had some swift unlearning to do.
Sadly, our erstwhile foreman of music, Roderick, recently moved to Yorkshire, was not able to join us. Also sadly for us, but joyously for him, Baz was unable to join us because of the imminent arrival of yet another grandchild. But we had the unexpected pleasure of Gunther’s company to swell the number of dancers; indeed Gunther was given a weekend pass so he could join us on Sunday, too.
Up in the green room Tom tried on the Fool’s costume, wisely applying a generous dose of Febreze to the underarms; who’d have thought that a lad from Paisley would look so at home in an English bumpkin’s smock…even if the accent was a bit of a giveaway.
It was too early to start dancing, so we kicked our heels for a while before making our way to the main gate for a busking spot to welcome visitors. Once a few punters arrived, the Men danced one of their standard opening dances Bumpus o’Stretton (Ilmington), while I lurked by the gatehouse until a quorum of visitors would justify my appearance. However, number one misremembered the calls, and Phil came perilously close to a tumble on the wet grass. The martinet squire was having none of it, and after a “pep talk” the Men moved to the metalled path and did it again…not perfect, but a great improvement.
Then I decided it was time to emerge from the shadows, and the folk queuing at the kiosk (and the lady in it) were overjoyed with my equine welcome – the ladies especially.
After a few more dances it was time to move to the first scheduled spot outside the front door of the castle. But on the way, just past the carousel, the squire halted the team to advise the Men that they were the “hired help” and shouldn’t photobomb or otherwise annoy the paying customers; thank goodness that someone piped up “these rules do not apply to the Horse!”, to which there was general murmuring of consent.
Mustered on the gravel outside the front door (not the Men’s favourite dancing surface), at 10 am MST (Morris Standard Time, which is BST plus or minus 30 minutes depending on the weather and proximity of licensed premises) the musicians played the opening bars of Tuesday Night (Bledington), and we were off.
I rationed my exposure to the guests – they can have too much of a good thing, you know. There were many folk from the USA who said the nicest things (once they had recovered from the surprise of the stealth of my approach) and claimed to be very fond of horses; had they been Belgians I may have taken their liking for horses slightly more guardedly.
Five dances later it was time to adjourn to the courtyard café and a beverage for the Men (nothing stronger than tea or coffee!); Lady C walked past and was heard to remark that she could have sworn she saw them sitting in exactly the same place a year ago.
Lolling about not being in a Morrisman’s nature, it was soon agreed that a busking spot in the courtyard was in order, so another dose of Cotswold joy was shared with the guests.
At one o’clock it was time for our second scheduled appearance outside the front door to amuse the guests queuing to get into the Castle, and another half dozen dances, opening with one of my favourites, Sweet Jenny Jones, with such an enchanting song, no matter in which key (or even keys) the men choose to sing it. The spot included Jubilee (Ilmington); how strange not to be able to us the old joke that we knew it was created for Queen Victoria’s golden jubilee “because Rod was there”.
To give the Men a breather, the (acting) Fool gave the queue a brief lesson on Morris and a run-down on Phil’s kit… probably making it up as he went along, as they all do.
Then it was off to lunch; a silence descended on the green room as the Men munched on cheese-and-something-green sandwiches and Hula-hoops, a little nibble of some lush grass for me.
At a quarter past two prizes were to be given out in the marquee. Excited to see what this was all about, we flocked to the marquee; the Earl and Countess were going to award prizes for a variety of categories of costume, including best hat (Tom was pushed forward to enter this competition, but didn’t win – shame, it was a good hat!), best upstairs (i.e upper class), best downstairs (i.e. servant class), best flapper, best child and best Highclere employee. I was hoping for a “best animal” class, but it was not to be – there would have been little competition.
At the end of the prizegiving there was a minute’s silence to honour the late Queen, after which we trooped back to the courtyard for a third busking session; tiredness was beginning to set in, as was demonstrated by our Country Member’s complete failure to remember the sticking to Jubilee (Ilmington) – how he hung his head in shame (although for a man who hasn’t danced “proper” Cotswold for a year, he didn’t do too badly…he tells me).
After a break for tea and cake, at 3.30 came time for the final formal spot, this time in the courtyard as no new guests were arriving at the front door. It commencing with a rousing rendition of the British Grenadiers (Skirmish, Adderbury), and finished with a final exertion in the form of the Upton-upon-Severn Stick Dance, whereupon we all headed for our transport – except those overgrown children who were determined to have a ride on the carousel.
Dinner for the Men staying overnight was again at the Woodpecker, then a time for tales and reminiscences over cheese and port and/or whisky under the awning, and so to bed.
Sunday
It would be tempting to make a reference to Groundhog Day as the day followed exactly the same routine. The main difference was that Sunday dawned so foggy that the Men could hardly make out the ablutions block, and when we got to Highclere, the Castle was barely visible in the murk.
But the mist thinned as the sun warmed the air, and it turned into a beautiful day. The autumnal atmosphere, coupled with the presence of a shade-less table lamp in the green room, just begging for a Morris man’s hat to adorn it, caused young Chris (as opposed to ancient Chris and Chris Two-Cakes) to wax all lyrical, and pen this masterpiece (all his own work, he assures me):
The merry-go-round organ whirred in to life, its bright tones cutting the autumn air. A fug of fog hung, a royal spectre across the estate. Victorian artifice rising, Jacobethan stones shining matt in the mists of mellow fruitfulness. The pulse of ancient lores rose, galvanised by the jangle of bells and clash of sticks; magic flowing in these ancient parts of Albion. Tradition and customs met, the gossamer thin veil between worlds strained by a desire to hark back to time gone by. I felt the rush of adoration and I was transfigured; no longer was I but a dancer, I had become part of the ebb and flow of something more ancient. I looked upon myself and could see the swirls and curls of lustre green. I felt my photonic calling. I had become a lamp, my destiny fulfilled.
Perhaps this was catalysed by the presence of chocolate with the cheese-and-something-green lunchtime sandwiches – it can do funny things to the human psyche.
Again, no Yateley Man won the hat competition (Fool-for -the-day Peter de Courcy being thrust forward), and at the final spot with the Countess present a swift re-ordering of the programme was done, and Beaux of London City (Adderbury), aka Shooting, was inserted. In the hope of tempting her ladyship to kiss the victim back to life herself, Chris F, the youngest and (arguably) most virile, but certainly least knackered, of the Men, was nominated to be shot in the final bar; to no avail, Lady C asked an accompanying lady from the Americas to perform the resuscitation. Completely bemused, she nevertheless gently transferred a kiss from lips to forehead via a gloved finger, whereupon nearly all the Men swooned and fell to the ground in hope of similar treatment (not forthcoming).
Soon after the Men gathered up their kit and baggage and made their weary way back to their various vehicles for dispersal to their waiting sweethearts, armchairs and beds. They are already looking forward to next year!
Participants:
Dancers: Andy Pobjoy, Chris Franklin, Gunther Clasen, Ian Sutherland (Squire),
Ian Young, Mark Russell, Paul Lethbridge (Sunday only),
Peter de Courcy (Fool Sunday only), Peter Stapleton, Phil Goddard,
Tim Lloyd Tom Brady (Fool Saturday, dancer Sunday)
Music: Chris Bartlett, Chris Chapple, Steve Betts, Ian Sutherland (p/t).
YATELEY MORRIS MEN 