A Driver’s Tale!7th Feb 2004 by welbourn TEKH Diary extract: 11 September 2000 I left Grantham in Lincolnshire at 6.00am, it was still dark and getting up at this time of the day, for me, is always a real shock to my system. As I prepared for my day ahead, I thought of Julian, holed-up in his Travel lodge, also having to endure the same rude awakening, for we had arranged to meet up to experience the Horn Dance at Abbots Bromley in Staffordshire. As I drove, I switched on my car radio and the early morning news was dominated by the threat of blockades at petrol refineries and the possibility of an impending fuel shortage. I had just under half-a-tank of fuel left and drove complacently past a number of deserted petrol stations that glowed like oases in the morning gloom. I thought to myself, “For Christ’s sake, this is England, we were not like the French, this crisis will have all blow over by mid-day.” The Abbots Bromley Horn Dance is an event held each year on ‘Wakes Monday’, the first Monday after the first Sunday following the 4 September, and starts at 8.00am and continues throughout the day until 8.00pm. Although it most probably originated as a mid-winter or spring festival, it has since been supplanted by Christian ideology and is now recognised as a Mediaeval hunting ritual. Its roots can be traced back to Saxon times and commemorates the granting of hunting rites for the villagers in Needwood Forest. It is known, that the festival has been celebrated at many stations in the year and was once a three-day fertility dance held in August. The ritual includes twelve dancers and musicians who dress in Tudor style costumes, six of which are men who carry antlers, some of which date back to the 11th century, whilst a seventh man rides an ‘obby-oss’. A ‘Fool’ capers around, a representative of Mother Nature’s chaotic element whilst a boy with a bow and arrow, a Robin Hood type figure, represents the Dionysus figure or the green man of the forest - a nature spirit. A girl represents his partner, Marion or the May-Bride and the ensemble is completed by the inclusion of an accordion and a triangle player. By 7.15am I had almost reached my destination and I drove cautiously through the speed traps situated along the A515 towards Abbots Bromley. Through my rear-view-mirror I witnessed the sun as a translucent-pink ball in the eastern sky and the early morning mist shrouded the glistening fields and hedgerows. It is on days like these, when the first sharp snap of autumn kicks in, that makes England such a very magical place. By 7.20am I had reached Abbots Bromley, the village sign depicted a pair of antlers presiding over the place name, a reassuring sign that I was in the right place. As I pulled into the village, I immediately recognised the grimy, battled-scarred chariot in front as being the vehicle of a Mr. Cope. I flashed him and we pull over and greeted each other. We drove on into the centre of the village and parked up by the village green, and took a short walk to the church where the dance traditionally begins. We entered and were amazed at the fifty or so people in attendance in this godly place at this ‘ungodly’ hour! The horns or antlers are chained and padlocked high on the south-eastern corner of the church wall and we arrived in time to witness the unlocking of these relics in preparation for the day’s proceedings. The events commenced, with the local vicar taking on the mantle of Chief Druid by giving a short blessing to the participants. The dancing party, decked in their Tudor style clothing, congregated outside for their traditional cigarette ritual and readied themselves for their marathon jaunt ahead. By 8.00am, the morning sun had dispersed the early mist and in gentle sunlight, the reticent congregation burst into life and the dance began. The still, sharp, morning air that I had experienced earlier, had now been replaced by a warm breeze and in this golden light, strange, stroboscopic shadows were cast by the dancers. We shed our coats and basked in this warm, refreshing air. The dance took on many forms, and with weaving and spiral movements, the dancers made their way around the village, stopping at key places to perform their ritual dance and to collect money. We followed them for an hour or so, around modern housing estates, where doors are knocked upon and bleary-eyed ‘locals’, some still in their dressing gowns, were accosted for donations. The ‘Fool’ was the designated money collector and he approached us for contributions, he grinned, for he had obviously recognised Julian and commented, “How else can we afford to buy your books!” and shakes the tin vigorously in front of the Drude’s face. By 9.00am, the gaggle of small children that had been accompanying us, had now retreated back to their school-rooms in the village. The dancers then headed out of the village and continued their itinerary around all the local farms. During the first, of their many cigarette-breaks, we sat in the sun, talking and absorbing the vibe of this eccentric custom. As the dancers reassembled, we took leave of them and headed back to the village. Here we found a tearoom where I discovered that Julian’s thirst for tea is even greater than my own! We are supplied with tea and toast by tea-ladies who were unaccustomed to the tea drinking demands of such thirsty clientele. As we left the Tudor tearoom we again noticed antlers, synonymous with Abbots Bromley, depicted in wood incorporated within the exterior façade of the building. We took a walk back to the church, it was quieter now and we circumnavigated the churchyard like detectives looking for clues. The curved banking of the churchyard leads down to a brook, a tributary to the River Blithe and although the church is not situated on the highest part of land in the village the site has commanding views over towards the direction of the River Blithe and the modern Blithfield Reservoir. The site reminds me of the church at Braunston-in-Rutland, home of the stone ‘goggle-eyed’ Celtic Goddess who waits outside the church, temporarily banished from her home by the Christian lodgers. I believe, Braunston, like Abbots Bromley are both quintessentially sacred, pagan sites and are crying out to be rediscovered. We walked back from having revisited the village sign that we had passed earlier and we paused at a field gate to talk and to survey the ley of the land. Although the dancers had departed the village and were not due back until later in the day, a number of stalls had now sprung-up on the village-green, some selling musical instruments, books and many with Horn Dance paraphernalia. Here we met Martin Smith the ‘Mellotron Man’ who lives locally and he explained how the Horn Dance nowadays took on the mantle of a giant, all-day pub-crawl. A tradition that is probably not that different in concept from the one once undertaken by the initiators of this ancient dance. After more tea and cake we headed over to Martin’s nearby workshop to witness splendid instruments used in the recording of many classic ‘progressive-rock’ albums, including the actual Mellotron used by King Crimson on their album, ‘The Wake of Poseidon’. After saying our goodbyes, I left Julian and Martin and began my journey back home to Lincolnshire. As I drove, I tuned the radio into a local news station to catch up on the developments in the impending fuel-crisis. The crisis that had initially appeared to me to be a bit of a ‘storm in a tea-cup’ that morning, had now escalated into more serious shit. I checked my fuel gauge and I was in the red! As I drove along looking for a suitable place to fill up, I passed petrol stations with queues filtering out onto the main roads. I knew I was not going to make it home without refuelling, I cursed the opportunities that I had not taken earlier in the day. Resigned to my fate, I took a deep breathe, indicated left and pulled over to join a snaking, hissing queue that had formed on the hard shoulder just outside of Nottingam. Abbots Bromley, Staffordshire : OS Map 128 : SK079246 |
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