Clear as a bell

"And the sad act like lepers

They stick to the shadows

They long to ring bells of warning

To tell of their coming

So that the pure can shut their doors."

- Conor Oberst

One of our overseas readers has asked why it is that Morris dancers wear bells on their trousers. It is, of course, so that they can annoy blind people as well as everyone else.

BIF, the remainder

 I didn't actually take advantage of much else that was on offer at the Buxton Festival, choosing instead to take a trip to Hardwick Hall. I'd never been before, although I was vaguely aware of the story of Bess of Hardwick, who seems to have been a most formidable woman, marrying a series of rich men, who all died leaving her their money and property, fighting a series of lawsuits to maintain her rights in said money and property and outliving pretty much everyone who'd tried to get one over on her. It's an interesting house and an interesting story. What I hadn't realised previously was that her second husband was the Cavendish from whom the Dukes of Devonshire descend or that she had built the original Chatsworth House, now replaced by the current one. The 12th duke owns much of the land a bit further up the Wharfe Valley from where I live, as he does most of the land around Buxton. Both places are replete with pubs called the Devonshire Arms and buildings called the Cavendish Pavilion and the like. I would post some photos of Hardwick Hall, but it was raining heavily during my visit, as it continued to do throughout my few days in Derbyshire.

Now, far too little time has passed since I last featured Morris dancers and I apologise for mentioning them again. The worst of the rain was on Saturday morning and with thunder, hailstones etc all going on around me I dived into the small shopping centre in the centre of Buxton to be confronted by the surreal sight of dozens of Morris men and women standing there jingling to themselves. OK, not just to themselves, but also to the rest of us who were seeking shelter from the storm. It seems that someone thought it would be a good idea to have a constant stream of Morris sides dancing throughout the town during the festival. It wasn't. The vaguely steampunk bunch shown above were perhaps the least offensive.

A Morris dancer goes into a pub and says to the barman "I bet you don't remember me".

The barman studies him for a bit and says "Well, I don't recognise the face, but the legs ring a bell".

Pot87pouri

Before anyone else points it out, there have indeed been two Pot85pouris. The house rule is friendly ties and so this becomes number 87.

There's lots of stuff happening in Otley at the moment. This weekend for example is the Folk Festival, which means the streets are full of people who look like this:

I believe that the next lot are meant to be crows although why that means they have to whack each other with sticks I don't know.

This bunch are dancing with swords, although my photograph doesn't really show it very well; nice waistcoats though.

And then there were these ladies, who took it all very seriously indeed, but in fairness had a really slick entrance and exit routine.

Anyway, that's enough pot/kettle mockery of other people's strange hobbies so let's turn instead to the recent Vintage Transport show. There weren't many traction engines this year, which is a great shame, but there were a few military vehicles including this one which gave rise to a question in my mind.

In the film 'A Bridge Too Far' (and I am specifically talking about the film rather than reality) Sean Connery complains at one point that something hasn't arrived and is consoled in traditional British fashion with a cup of tea. The question I am asking myself is whether the thing that has gone missing was a jeep itself or a specially designed airborne motorbike such as is strapped to the front of this one. It's bugging me more than it should and I may have to watch the film again. Inevitably it will be a hugely disappointing experience and another fond memory of my youth will be spoiled.

Finally, I expect that you are all waiting eagerly for my insider's view on the latest shenanigans within the Labour Party. In particular you want to know what prompted the aborted attempt to abolish the position of Deputy Leader, an attempt which seemed to come from nowhere and catch everyone, especially the incumbent Deputy Leader himself, by surprise. My view is that we should interpret it to mean that Jezza is intending to stand down fairly soon and the manoeuvre was driven by the wish for Tom Watson not to be in interim charge while a new leader is elected. You will recall that the pair have very different views on the big issue of the day. You heard it here first.

Hail to asparagus

The Casa Epictetus once again has both heat and hot water, and not a moment too soon because, despite it being spring, we have once again been hit by a hailstorm of Biblical proportions. I watched it from the comfort of the Boathouse Café in Lister Park, but sadly there was no one stranded out on the lake in the pedal boats. Anyway, as it is spring certain things have returned. This being Otley, one of them is Morris dancing; this bunch are the Buttercross Belles:

On a happier note the first English asparagus of the season has arrived. To celebrate I went with sweet potato and ginger mash, pan fried tomato with onion and basil and, of course, poached eggs:

And everywhere there was song and celebration

It is the Otley Folk Festival this weekend. I became aware that it had started when, having retired not particularly early, I was awoken by someone singing 'Dirty Old Town' very loudly outside my house. I didn't mind that so much, but was somewhat less pleased when upon stepping out of my front door this morning I walked straight into three morris dancers. I was accompanied by the big bouncy woman who, to my astonishment, professed a liking for men prancing around with bells on their trousers and pigs bladders on sticks. Still as Jean-Paul Sartre said "We do not judge the people we love".

On the subject of quotations, it was Winston Churchill who first said "Never let a good crisis go to waste". I'm now feeling slightly better and so I have suspended my no nursing rule; the big bouncy woman was with me because she had been on first shift today.  Always careful of her reputation she is keen that I should point out to readers that the level of any perking up that may have taken place was specially tailored to my invalid status.

After lunch, when I'd also been visited by la seconda infermiera, I felt well enough to step outside to give the folk festival's street entertainment the once over. It was all very pleasant: the sun shone, the streets were busy, there was food and drink (not for Epictetus, who hasn't eaten anything but porridge for some days now), and the Ukulele Orchestra of Otley were just packing up as I arrived. In my brief visit I saw passable covers of songs from artists such as John Martyn and Joni Mitchell plus a Chuck Berry song that I'd never heard before. It wasn't one of his best, but any Chuck Berry song has got to be good right? Except for 'My Dingaling' obviously.

Forty effeminate blacksmiths

A man goes in to a pub and says "Do you serve Morris dancers?" 
"Oh yes" says the landlord. 
"Good" says the man. "I'll have a packet of crisps, and a Morris dancer for my dog".

I have been absent for a while because my professional career suddenly burst into life and I have been mingling with the self-consciously trendy denizens of the world of hi-tech. I will just remark cryptically that in the unlikely event that I ever feel the need to behave like that I shall regard a decent coffee machine as a higher priority than a ping-pong table. Anyway, I can't think of a better way to return than with some Morris dancing. 

Otley, the market town of about 15,000 souls a few miles downstream from Ilkley - epicentre of wargaming in lower Wharfedale - in which I have recently pitched my tent, is home to no less than three Morris sides. One of them, I think the lot pictured, is of the Border tradition; there is a female North Western tradition side; and the third lot seem to be of the Jazz/Funk persuasion. You may consider that to be three sides too many for such a small place; I couldn't possibly comment.

Anyway, the Wharfedale Wayzgoose, for it is they, were on what seemed to be a pub crawl round Otley today. Now Otley's pub estate has declined from the days when there were forty six (that's right forty six pubs for fifteen thousand people), but the event boasted of visiting twenty premises. I have long held the theory that warriors, at least in the days of close combat, would only have fought because they were drunk. Obviously the same is true of painting ones face and wearing feathers in one's hat and bells on one's trousers.

Most impressively one of them was performing the pub crawl bit on an invalid scooter from which he would rise to dance at each pub. Now that's the way to do it.