Even the most crusty of old Norfolk curmudgeons must occasionally scan the heavens and admit with a winsome smile: “Times do change!”
Country life has lost much its spontaneity while demands for it to be revived are on the increase … possibly as a result of crafty moves on the part of estate agents who paint alluring pictures in words.
New villagers, often drawn in the first instance by tales of rustic rituals designed to keep indigenous folk amused before satellite dishes, orienteering, paintballing and real ale, are digging up anniversaries by the barrow-load. Happenings that used to happen so easily no-one thought them unusual in a particular area now assume a mystique bordering on the supernatural.
Take the traditional Norfolk routine of dickey-dawdling where rival hamlets reflected virtues of a gentle, more sensitive age by pitting their slowest donkeys against each other on the last Saturday in July.
The animal taking longest to complete the two-furlong course on neutral territory, while deemed not to have stopped or taken on board any form of sustenance at any stage of the journey, was crowned King Dickey in the first week of August - if the competition had ended.
There are rumours of reviving this gentle delight in west of the county, manly in hope of making it an Olympic sport in time for the 2036 Games… but using traffic wardens or old-fashioned bicycles in place of perambulating donkeys. Arts Council backing is promised , but purists say it simply won’t be the same. They have a point.
Norfolk has seen the socially significant and deeply moving “Salute the Suffragette” manifestation of Edwardian country house gatherings reduced to a garden fete knockabout sideshow called Drench the Wench. So politically incorrect it mocks all progress made in certain departments over the past century and a bit. We surely need Soak the Bloke in the precious name of equality.
We have brave new custodians of revels, festivals and wakes confusing swan-upping at Downham with pint-downing at Upon. We have winced at questioning of fertility-inducing merits of rolling pork cheeses along disused railway lines . The pre-Beeching era was noted for lack of complaints about the habit
We know there’s reluctance to accept the Dunmow Flitch as a Norfolk custom in origin despite firm evidence it was popular in the 13th century as the Dunhame itch. Married couples resident in either Crete or Little Dunhame who could prove they had not uttered a civil word to each other during a period of at least seven years and a day after the wedding were given leave to separate along with a voucher for a side of salted beef.
It all adds up to serious doubts about the amount of due care and attention likely to be paid by those claiming to seek country anchors in a changing world.
From well-undressing for hardy maidens and shy bachelors on January 15h to forelock-tugging for those of a subservient disposition on any five dates in October, well-loved local ceremonies must be retained as comfortingly fixed points on our modern calendar.
June 27 is Dogrose Day when courting couples all over the county rise early to catch the morning on those lovely hedgerow leaves for time-honoured cheek-brushing rites.
A joyful interlude unrivalled in its summer simplicity and beauty, although Suffolk’s Ragwort Week. involving retired coalmen and former debutantes from Sudbury has its supporters.
If you want a real winter warmer still perplexing multitudes of Norfolk newcomers, I recommend s practice set deep in pagan soil. A dank November day with rain, wind, fog frost and mud round the edges is an ideal setting for Beeting the Raretreat.
To renew vows to Mother Earth (and local branch of National Union of Agricultural Workers) wear a tattered cap, collarless shirt, open waistcoat, overalls with sacking tied to the knees with binder twine, hobnailed boots without laces and a smile that looks genuine.
Select two items on either side from a large root crop and bang them together to banish dark underground forces. Place them neatly in lines for your following companion, male or female, to defoliate with one swish of a sharp hook to signify frailty of Mother Earth’s children.
At the end of each row, after a swig of cold tea from a bottle and glance at dark skies above, both participants bow. turn and prepare for fresh action with the incantation:
Guard the bounty.. for us there’s no stoppin’. Bewtiful weather for knockin’ and toppin’
Norfolk can ill afford to surrender such fertile ground.
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