venta

The illustrated guide to a weekend away with a rapper team:

With only a slight navigational hiccough round Stourbridge (not my fault, for once) Sue, Jenny and I rolled into Much Wenlock at about ten o'clock on Friday night. Isn't Much Wenlock a lovely name ? We were going to a birthday party...

When I was very small, I remember going to Whitby folk festival and there being a duo of dance teams - The Ironmen and Severn Gilders - who turned up regularly. They must have been quite new teams, then, as they are exactly the same age as me. The ages of the members vary wildly, of course, but the teams theselves are 30 this year.

The Severn Gilders (the ladies' team) are a fearsome organisational force. When we arrived at the school they'd hired for the weekend, it was a simple matter of following the signs to find our door.
	Behind it was a classroom in which we made our beds for the weekend; it's not all glamour, you know.

Down to the bar for soup and beer, and at this point my feeble attempt at photojournalism fails because I'd forgotten to charge the batteries in my camera. There was chatting, and then the bar closed and people began slowly to drift off to bed. Not us, however, for we are Boojum and we do not travel without a steady supply of red wine. We were, by about 1am, vaguely surprised to realise we appeared to be the last team standing - until we discovered a small coven of Wolfshead Morris only just settling in to their drinking. We left them to it, and retired to bed.

Saturday morning was an early start: showers, breakfast, a quick practice and... with spare batteries produced by Bernard... ready to leap onto the coach at half past nine. Wolfshead Morris again outdrunkarded us by swigging white cider along with their breakfast, at which point we gracefully bowed out of the running.
	On the way to the coach I finally discovered why there had been a bucket of cut flowers in the stairwell - they were there for the Ironmen to trim their hats with.

Shrewsbury market square is a pleasant place, surrounded by an interesting array of buildings from various historial eras. It was occupied by a cake and bric-a-brac stall and a surprisingly large number of people who seemed willing to stop and watch dancing.
	It had been reasonably peaceful, but that was quickly redeemed as soon as the Ironmen's band got started.

Poynton Jemmers are another team I remember from being very small, but haven't seen recently. They remain hot contenders for having the costume I like least. Having heard the name before I could read, it's always vaguely lodged in my head as Point And Gemmas; I think this is the first time I've ever confidently known how to spell it.
	Wheal Sophia (pronounced Wheels of Fire) are a team I'd never encountered before, named after a Devon tin mine. Some of them had t-shirts whose backprint read "deceptively aerobically capable"; on asking, I was told that that was something a Canadian barrister had said about them in Tuscany. Of course.

Great Western are something of a polarising force in the morris world - most people love 'em or hate 'em. I feel morally obliged to hate them, because I think waving hankies round your head is a silly occupation, but have to concede that they're very entertaining. They do Cotswold (=hankywaving) morris in a Border (=lots of yelling) morris style. They're also surprisingly athletic - what isn't clear in this photo is that the upper person is leapfrogging the lower person. They're good at what they do, but one of the things they do most is piss about.

And here's us posing in front of an imposing building of uncertain function.

Another coach journey through some pretty countryside, and we were in Bridgnorth. Bridgnorth is one of those bizarre places (like Matlock Bath) which is clearly a seaside resort, but which completely lacks any actual seaside.
	Never let it be said that hobbies of dubious social acceptability go together, but after a pub lunch a surprisingly high number of dancers were delighted to head to our next venue. I have to admit that I joined the number of people who were disappointed that the A4 Pacific[*] (with its smokebox door open and everything) was hidden behind another loco and not steaming.
All the large, sprawly morris teams danced in the car park (which was, admittedy, right next to the beer tent. Not only steam locos, but a beer festival too - they know their audience. Pintwatch had some very nice beer from a Cambridge brewery, the name of which it has now completely forgotten ). We, being a nice, tidy little rapper team danced on the platform instead. Mind the gap.

Back on the coach at half four, back to the school in Much Wenlock for dinner. There was a ceilidh in the evening with Ironmen and Severn Guilders' two in-house dance bands (Ceilidhography and All Blacked Up). There would have been photos, but sadly an ill-lit hall was too much for my small flashgun and the photos are rather crap. Incidentally, someone expressed surprise the other day at a folk-dance band having a full drum kit. For reference All Blacked Up, who are quite a respected band, have a standard line up of drums, electric bass, electric guitar, two melodeons, and one bloke who plays blowy things ranging from tin whistle to saxophone.

Saturday morning was getting up, packing up, and heading over to Ironbridge. The bridge is pedestrianised these days, and we were allowed to dance on it. It's a nice setting, with lots of interested bystanders.
	We didn't break it much.

I also finally picked up my new clogs - plain black leather so I can dance out in Boojum kit (they vetoed my beloved purple clogs). Walking back with Trefor the Clogmaker to get them from his car, we were accosted by any number of morris dancers wanting advice on the care and feeding of clogs, the costs of getting repairs done, and with a stream of people wanting to be measured up for new clogs. The measuring is, of course, a high tech process.

Then upwards of a hundred dancers sat themselves down on and round the bridge to eat their packed lunches, and it was home time. A bit tired from two days' dancing, a bit achey from two nights on the floor, and little battered from the late nights and red wine. With luck I'll be healthy again by Friday... because we're off to Sheffield.

[*] Note for interested parties: 60009. Union of South Africa.