All on a Bright May Morning
A Merry May Morning to you. Bright Phoebus is making a valiant attempt to rise high over Mousehold, where the combined Morris talent of Norwich should be doing their stuff right now, and I am getting on the right side of a pot of hot tea before going off to the Cathedral to meet up with them.
The initial peek round the bedroom curtain is never invested with such significance as it is on May Day. I would like to say I'm there come rain or shine, but have to admit there have been years when sense has prevailed in the face of unremitting rain, although a couple of years ago we did set out in the middle a short but vicious thunderstorm!
For many years locally Kemp's Men were the keepers of the tradition of dancing in the May, but we can now usually expect Golden Star Morris and Fiddlestix Ladies Clog. Last year was an exceptionally good turnout - Kemps fielded two teams, Star and Stix were there, as was a small but energetic side from UEA resplendent in tatter coats, and a local Scout side put in a very creditable performance. Morris, despite appearing to be an undertaking for drunken fools, actually demands a fair level of fitness and discipline, particularly when using sticks, and there's always a combination of encouragement and a keenly critical eye from the dancers watching. For the Scouts it was a special project of researching and taking part in a tradition, but we all hoped that at least some of them would catch the bug and want to carry on.
Why is it special? Why does it matter so much? It's the lovely feeling of everybody bursting out of the box after the winter - all that noise of fiddles and squeezeboxes and bells, all that colour of ribbons and wildly decorated hats, all that stamping and whooping, to confirm that we're all still here and what's more the spirit of anarchy has not yet been regulated out of the English! And the sense of being part of a virtual community, knowing that an aerial view of the country would pick up similar little spots of noise and colour and energy. They'll be there, in Cornwall, in Sussex, in Kent, in Devon, going 'Whose idea was this? We must be mad. Cor, my knees. When's breakfast?" and noisily celebrating the simple fact of being human.
Several hours later .....
Well, a bit low key this year, no Scouts and only a sprinkling of Golden Stars (plus hobbyhorse) but I must say Kemps are looking full of vim these days, with Son of Bert ably representing the upcoming generation. The Lord Mayor always gets hoicked out of bed to come and spectate, poor man, he starts the year with these riff-raff whiffling in his procession and there they are again at the end of it! Somebody should contrive a specially embroidered scarf and gloves as part of the civic regalia - it gets chilly standing around at that time in the morning.
Never mind, it didn't rain and we kept the tradition going. Now all I have to do is digest my 'ceremonial' breakfast - the one morning in the year when a great big plateful of all the Wrong Things is justified - and snooze on the sofa, dreaming of following the Old 'Oss through the streets of Padstow, the small Cornish village which for twenty-four hours each May becomes every good folkie's spiritual home.