Following some of the invites that circulated at Mike Salter's weekend, H and I followed up one within easy distance of home. We went out on our 45 minute trip across the moors , near Snowdonia. Passing stone-age villages, Roman Mines and the castles of Edward I, we traversed this barren wilderness, admiring the snow-clad distant mountains. We dropped down into the village of Betws-Y-Coed, renowned for its many waterfalls and tumbling streams, popular with tourists in the summer.
Today it was cold and a little overcast. Driving into the car park of the Royal Oak pub, we looked around to see if there were any other dancers. We could see none. Was it the wrong pub? Was it the wrong date? Was the whole thing a figment of my imagination? I'll be damned if I'm going to go in the pub on my own looking like this. Fortunately I spotted a blackened face peering through the non-artificially frosted windows.
The pub was welcoming and had a high ceiling, two essential features lacking from many North Wales pubs. A fine selection of beers caught the eye, and an attractive aroma floated from the kitchens, ready for the Sunday Lunch 6.50 GBP, advertised outside. There inside were three "local" teams. Eryri from Snowdonia, Madcaps Progress from the Welsh Borders of Shropshire, and Clerical Error from Offa's Dyke. These were teams known well to each other. Eventually dancers started to move outside and shamble into position. CE started wiyh Craven Stomp. A two-dance-each-team rotation persisted for two hours. Eryri, a mixed Cotswold, and a little Border, team performed their Lilly Bolero with panache, a dance that must be the trademark for this team. Madcaps Progress, who write all their material, danced a wide assortment of their own creations, in the Border style. If ever there is a Top Ten dances of Morris, their Hey Fever, a dance consisting only of Heys, must be in that list. Other dances included "Young Collins", "Vandals of Hammerwich" (becoming more popular with Border teams), Ragged Crow, Wrekin Havoc, White Ladies Aston etc.
One tragedy of Border teams is that they have no common dances that can be massed danced. A quick five minute tutorial of Bonny Green Garters was the preparation for the finale. May I point out that the gag of letting Dancer No. 1 lead off down the road in one direction, whilst everyone else dances into the pub, is an old gag. Ha, Bloody, Ha. You won't catch me on that, again.
An odd conversation I had with some American Tourists was that they collared me and said "We're from New Mexico. Do you know the Vancouver Morris Men?". "Small world" thought I. "Should I press my luck? Do you know a pub called the Craven Arms?" I enquired. "Sorry, we don't" they replied. "Shame".
My apologies to Paul Read, as I neglected to note the full available menu. I did, however note that Clerical Error had ordered bowls full of Chips covered in mayonaise, a habbit that they have brought with them from the gutter. Personally, I only had a single home-baked scone with a pat of butter and a little pot of Strawberry Preserve. The scone was not as moist as I usually like them, but it had unexpected shreds of orange peel providing a little excitement to my palette.
Amongst the dancing came the Christmas Mumming Play of Clerical Error. I had expected that they would perform St.Winefride's Well, a play about a local Celtic Saint, who was decapitated, but grew another head. This year it was a play that contained St.George and a Dragon. These plays are usually unpopular in Wales, as the symbol of England slays the symbol of Wales. St.George is normally met with boos and jeers. In this play, St.George is an effette wally, who faints at the sight of the Dragon. As he falls to the ground, he lays a sheet where he is to fall. In comes Sir John of the Thumbs, a real local historic Welsh knight of Denbigh, who had two thumbs on each hand. In spite of his valiant efforts the Dragon is slain, who squirts out green gunge from his wounds. Megan appears with her besom, revealing the scandal that St.George is indeed her son. The Doctor appears and manages to revive the dragon. Well, it seemed to make sense at the time. You had to be there really.
As the dancers filed back into the pub, I was told to to bring my musical instrument in so that we could play Folk Mu................
The turbo-charged engine of the apparently innocent family saloon roared into action.
The squeeling and burning tyres dragged the skidding vehicle out of the pub car park and
into the road. Within moments it was just a speck in the distance heading back into the
mountains, with only the noise of a screaming rabbit hanging on to the rear bumper.
Paul Millennas