Last year it was Morris on Ice, the year before it was Morris in the Snow, this year it was Morris in the Mist. A weekend early in December heralds the Madcap Morris Weekend. This week it was the 11th.
Mike Salter's Madcap Morris Weekend, in the Malvern Hills, Welsh Border country, is little publicised yet makes a significant contribution to the development of Welsh Border Morris in the UK.
This is an annual event that mixes workshop with practise. It is a venue to learn, and to teach. The latest trends and fashions in Welsh Border are on show here, as a practical exchange of ideas takes place. Teams are not invited; just individuals. Traditional Border blends seamlessly with Modern Border.
This event attracts the whole range of Morris people. From freaks, wierdos, low-lifes and social misfits, to freaks, wierdos, low-lifes and social misfits. I go mainly so that I feel very "normal".
Having already had our winter snows, H and I packed the 4-wheel drive, with our standard provision of carrots, explosives and body oil. Fortunately there was no snow forecasted for the weekend, only fog. I can see H in fog, but when he closes his eyes whilst standing in snow, if it weren't for the unfortunate piles, I would not be able to see him at all.
It was a 200 mile trip. As we got closer to Malvern we started to go through the villages of Upton-upon-Severn (where we stopped at the pub called Upton Muggery), Bromsberrow Heath, Leominster, Pershore, Ledbury (where the Devil and his followers dance), Evesham, Much Wenlock, Dilwyn, Peopleton, White Ladies Aston and Upton Snodsbury. We stopped the car for a while to reflect what these names meant to us. It meant that we were hopelessly lost as we should have been on the M50 motorway. H was doing the map reading and I accused him of sniffing those white-board markers again. He denied this and just wiggled his red, blue and green nose at me.
We popped in Mike's House which is accurately called Folly Cottage. He has converted his modest home into a castle with battlements, turrets and the "Great Hall". Mike, always reminds me of Roy Wood of Wizard. For American female Morris persons, if you are looking for an English guy, who is single and has his own castle, this is about the best you're going to get! Book early to avoid disappointment.
We hopped down the hill to the Lamb pub, where the dregs of Morris started to arrive. It was like the bar scene fron Star Wars. Just when you think you've seen it all, a wierder person appears. As the whole weekend is for scratch dances, music starts, people jump up and dancing commences. The evening progressed with an increasing humidity that emulated the cold fog outside. Cotswold appeared as regularly as Border. Baked potatos turned up during the evening to mop up the beer laying in our stomachs.
Near midnight, people started to crawl back up the hill to the castle. Those old hands knew that accomodation could be hit and miss, depending where you were billeted. Traditionally the problem is being SEVERELY cold. Each year Mike makes changes that now makes it pot luck. Like a bowl of porridge, it may be too hot, too cold or just right. This is the time that people get their folk instruments out, which is the cue for H and I to make a quick exit, stage left.
The Edwardian Hunting Lodge that we had booked ourselves into, retained much of its former elegance. Only 3 miles away from Mike's, it has a majestic view of the hills, a sumptuous wine cellar, and renowned kitchen. Dinner is strictly black tie; one of the few times that H looks truly elegant. As we later reclined in our armchairs of the Smoking Room, in front of the crackling log fire, by the Xmas tree, and finished off our fourth bottle of Chateau Thierry '44, we regretted not being with our Morris comrades sleeping on the stone floor of Folly Cottage.
We retired to our bedroom which had its own log fire lit, and a seemingly original four-poster bed. We unpacked our bags into the ancient wardrobes, leaving out only four silk ties.
Before dawn, people were starting to stir in the Great Hall. Sleeping bags crackled with the layers of frost. Some discovered for the first time who had been sharing their sleeping bags with them. Those desparate to ward off the cold, just tore holes in the bottom of their sleeping bags so they can walk around in warmth. The queue for the loo had started in earnest. Using loos shared by vegetarians is difficult enough, without having to concentrate whilst faces are pressed up against the lightly-frosted glass door. Many, wearing their tatters from the night before to keep warm, shuffled into the cornflake queue or the tea queue.
Well I guess it was something like that. I certainly imagined it that way as I sat in the oak-panelled Breakfast Room of the Hotel, by the smouldering peat fire, eating my kippers on a bed of lemon in Pernod, wondering how the working classes survive the winter. Wondering where H was, I returned to the room to find that he had accidentally tangled himself with the silk ties to the bed. Really. We returned to Breakfast to finish off our brandies by the Xmas tree, before venturing off to join the oiks.
The hall in West Malvern seems to get smaller each year. With over 70 numbed Morris people the morning workshop began. The following dances were taught :
These dances were to be used throughout the weekend whenever we danced. What is always encouraging, is seeing members of teams who have just started Morris, writing every minute feature as it happens. Some of the more experienced dancers carry notations for the newer dancers. This happens every year, and is, perhaps, the greatest single influence on UK border teams.
It can be a shock if you normally dance with an experienced team, to suddenly find yourself dancing across from someone who has no idea. The cautious, nervous types I can handle, steering them towards the correct direction and shouting out personal instructions. This year I got the worst type. The one who has no idea, but is very confident about it. Shrugging off my steering, and deaf to my instructions, he always gets back from his travels afar in time for the chorus of giving my knuckles a good hammering.
But now it is lunchtime. Time to kit up, yomp to the Brewers Arms and try it out.
It was only when all started to kit up for a lunchtime bash, was it apparent which teams some of the dancers belonged to.
About half the teams represented were :
Apologies to other teams I haven't mentioned.
The main kit was rag coats and tatters, or top hat and tails, with some colourful individual variations. Planet wear silk patchwork mauve and green chequered jackets, and individual headgear. Faces were black, or black, mauve and green, or blue, mauve, and green, or completely in the buff. After a morning's tough dancing, the trek up the hill to the Brewers Arms was a little painful. Fortunately it is a Marston's pub, and copious quantities of Best, Pedigree and Otter Ale were adequate compensation for our aches and pains.
Dancing was almost continuous for a couple of hours, with a brief interlude for chilli and baked potato, or lasagne. Whilst I was thinking that I was glad that I won't be sleeping with this lot tonight, I noticed H consuming his third chilli. It looks like it will be unsafe to light our bedroom fire tonight.
I was chatting to a couple of Clerical Error, who wear Vicar's dog collars as part of the kit, when a real vicar came up to us and insisted that he bought us a Cointreau each. This drink would not normally be considered Morris fare, but it was free. Come to think of it, I did a really posh wedding with Mersey and Kinnerton, and all they had to serve was White Wine and Cointreau in a poncy little glass. We emptied flowers out of nearby vases and filled up. It was a great day.
Whilst many danced outside the Brewers Arms inthe cold, many folky-types had crept into the Snug to play by the fire.
Mike's call to return to the hall was unwelcome. Tired Morris people left the comfort of the pub and crept like snail back to the hall. Unfortunately, possibly due to the mixed-sex content of the dancers, there was a pronounced lack of farting and belching, something I consider to be one of the finer points of all-Male Morris.
This was the time for dancers to teach their own dances.
Bourne Borders taught their "Fanny Bom Bom".
Wicked Stix taught "Twiglets" learnt from Planet Morris. This was the WOW! of the weekend. They started to teach it without demonstrating it. It seemed uneccessarily difficult - a four dancer square with one in the middle. They compounded the confusion by pointing out that each dancer has different movements. After a bit of head scratching, they decided to demonstrate. Eureka! It was obvious! Once you know the symmetry the movements can become obvious. It was the talk of the week, and since. The word is out. Last night I was at a team's practise and dancers who weren't there were asking to be taught it. Remember this one - TWIGLETS. I'll put it out on my web site when I get it worked out.
Broomsticks taught California, which seems to be a variation of Bedlam, from the Shropshire Bedlams. "California" is named after the tune. Stepping is two single steps followed by a double step. It is hard to to define what it is that makes a dance popular. This dance, and its variations are very popular with those who dance it. This has a good tune, an interesting step, lots of movement and enough simplicity not to need to concentrate. Sod the audience, this is a dance for us.
Blacksheep taught their own Barnard Castle.
I was off my guard this day, and when I returned from getting a cup of tea, I found H teaching the throng his version of the Birdy Dance, something I have forbidden him to do since..., well you remember the trouble I've had with himt.
And now for the bring and buy sale. Mike's income is derived from writing books about castese and churches. Various Morris shirts were on sale. I am not a keen fan of T- shirts as an alter ego. Gone were the days when people would make their own minds up about a person. Now we wear billboards proclaiming to the world how we would like to be considered. Wearing a Green Peace T-shirt says "I'm really a nice caring person" which is a bit easier than actually doing something about it. The one-line gag says "I'm an incredible wit" without having to have the eloquence of Oscar Wilde. I must admit, I have once bought a black sweat-shirt with small Open Morris motif. For teams who wear black shirts, it is a great additional layer to wear when Christmas Mumming around Chester in kit.
The next feature was advertised as "Ale in Village Hall. A fast moving mix of social dances and morris dances of all kinds and maybe the odd silly game. A help yourself free bar will be provided. Join in with the band, or call a dance if you want to. Songs, silly show dances, other entertainment welcome". This sounded fun, but they usually revert to the interest that 3% of the UK population have (NME Poll), yes, Folk Music. Elmo could report on this section, as H and I bolted for the hills and returned to the hotel in time to get dressed and have a candle-lit dinner together. Personally I would have really preferred to dance, sans-Folk, than dine, but the Braised Pheasant in Grand Marnier was partly some compensation.
Aching a little from the day's exertions, we had a hot bath. Numbed by two bottles of port, I volunteered to have the plug-hole end. As we snuggled up under the duvet by the firelight, we hoped that our comrades in Malvern would spend a warmer night on the floor.
After a plate of Quails Eggs and a last riding boot of mulled wine, we checked out of the hotel. Following a brief fracas about the additional item on the bill for the services of Dynarod, we packed the car and left for Malvern. Arriving at Mikes, some of the frozen corpses hobbled out, wearing kit,still assuming the positions that they had slept in. Some were more mobile, as they had not been to bed yet. The dancer from %^&*@ and dancer from >?:~{=+, who had made a drunken liaison the night before, did not appear for the rest of the weekend.
The assembled survivors looked like a crowd from a Mad Max movie. (By the way, wouldn't a Mad Max theme be a great idea for kit for a modern Morris team? Very sexy. Very aggressive.) Just like a scene from The Enchanted Garden, a little door was opened in the wall, and Mike led off through the small apperture up the mountain, whose steep slope started immediately on the other side. It was realised days after, that the reason that members of Annwn were not seen again, was that they had not woken up, and Mike had locked them in his house.
A column of about 60 Morris people, wound their way up the sheep tracks, into the thickening mists. Occasionally, some would reach a fork and have to cry out as a form of poor sonar, to detect the presence of those ahead. It was decided not to head for the mountain top as navigation was becoming so difficult. Eventually, we were led to a hollow where an old stone Cafe stood next to St.Ann's Well, a natural spring. A strong burst of Border Morris now took place. There was a chorus of Happy Brithday to Mike (38) and when it was asked how old he was, someone sarcstically said 50. Sarcasm fell on many deaf ears, and for the remainder of the day there were many conversations about how good he is looking for his age.
Another stop, somewhere in the mist, and a small crowd appeared. Dancing was more diverse. This may have partly been because of the hot punch being distributed from the large insulated glass flasks. There were two strengths, with a weaker one for the drivers. There was Gut Rot, the punch that was a fine plend of pure alchohol and Sulphuric Acid, with bats blood for colouring, and there was the strong one for the non-drivers. I particularly enjoyed dancing in the far set with mainly Clerical Error dancers, who performed two line of Brimfield Stick Dance in a cross, to assure collision in the heys. As soon as the first hey started, each dancer recognised that a Craven Stomp crossover would be perfect, with the result that it looked as if that was the way to do it. We have since discussed doing this as a more interesting element in future.
We filed through a kissing gate, where each dancer going through the gate, kissed the one following, irrespective of sex. H kept running back for more, causing some discomfort to those he kissed, as he is moulting badly.
We arrive at the Railway Inn. Much Wenlock and Upton Hanky outside, then in to dinner. The room began to fog up with condensation. Some of the teams performed for the others.
Planet Morris, by great demand, performed Twiglets, with one of their dancers having a spectacular accident in the set, and crashing to the floor, having slipped on the condensation on the floor.
Clerical Error danced the best performance I have ever seem them do, of Ragged Crow, picked up from I can't remember who in Blackpool a few years back. It was their newer dancers that did it, who showed a confidence normally gained by old-hands.
Ring O' Bells was danced scratch, and done quite competantly, seeing that a couple had not danced it before.
Black Sheep did a good performance of Black Pig (you Americans out there, have had incomplete childhoods without Captain Pugwash, Master Bates, Seaman Stains and Roger the Cabin Boy). This dance was co-choreographed by Flag Crackers of Craven (Dancing Division) and another team. It is a fine dance to do in a small room, yet can be used to totally dominate the space of a far larger venue.
Tired, well-fed and well-drunk, it was now the irksome task for the dancers to trek back over the mountain, this time over the top, back to Mike's, their cars and departure. Wel,l irksome to those that did not book a taxi. Unfortunately I can no longer report on the proceedings as H and I were driven away back to our car. With me still blacked up, well blue and yellowed up, and H still with the minature Xmas tree on his head, with flashing lights and large Xmas ornament earings, we drove off through the mist and up the motorway on the 200 mile trip home.
We are only now recovering from the weekend, although H isn't quite Lapin Erectus yet.
Same time next year? You bet!
Paul Millennas