We'd decided to do another workshop, in order to refresh the kids' memories. After all, they'd had two weeks off school and Santa had visited in the meantime. As the wassail was due to start at 230pm, we all met up at midday, and established ourselves in a room in the museum. And the kids began to arrive. The ones who'd turned up on 2nd December, the ones who'd been at the workshop in the school. And some others, who'd been attracted by the leaflets. Luckily, we'd brought along some more tee shirts and rags, so whilst the Squire and a few others ran over the dance and the song with the kids, a small team set to work making yet more rag jackets. Me, I did a bit of drumming and a bit of standing about. Watching with envy as some of the parents dropped their children off and then hurried off to the pub. I had my tankard ready though, for later on.
2pm arrived, the parents who hadn't stayed at the workshop turned up, suitably refreshed, some more so than others, and we all agreed to meet down at the other end of town for the procession. I took my big mediaeval drum on the procession, opting to leave the heavier stuff in the little room. We had a little chat with the mayor, lit the torches and away we went. Shambling along Severnside South, me banging the drum, torches blazing away, all attempting to sing the Somerset Wassail. Twice. Thankfully, it didn't take too long, and before we knew it, we were all shuffling through the front doors of the museum. Hundreds of us.
I grabbed the rest of my drums as we passed the little room where we'd been running the workshop and hurried off to the end of the gardens where the masses were assembling. And masses they were. The museum had put "clickers" on the doors to check how many people were coming in and out. More of that later. Stalls had been set out too, there was a hog roast, a stall selling delicious cakes among others.
We started with some community singing, a few wassail songs excellent performed by members of the Bewdley Choral Society, perhaps not so excellently joined by Wytchwood members, Bellyfusion, and literally hundreds of audience members, who, to be fair to them, had about one song-sheet per hundred people. They all hummed along quite nicely anyway, and we created a fair racket between us. When we were all wassailed out, we did a few dances, a bit of everything really, border, molly, and our recently learned Oddington Cotswold dance, Young Collins. Bellyfusion Dance Collective did a few too, and went down as well as ever.
After about half an hour, the audience and the Wytchettes were raring to go, and we introduced the products of our work-shopping labours. The Wytchettes had swelled to a fairly respectable thirty or so, and were about as enthusiastic as it's possible to get about Morris dancing. They gave a great rendition of their little song, did the dance, and then just to make sure, did it again. Wonderful stuff, and much appreciated by their parents. Much appreciated by everybody really, and they got a huge cheer at the end.
On to the wassail then, and the sprinkling of cider around the trees placing of cider soaked bread in the trees, and the banging of pots and pans to wake the trees from their winter slumber. We had the cider, some for the trees and some for us, and we had the wassail bowl to pour it into. It's also customary at this point to hoist a small worried looking boy into the tree and shoot at him, but the trees were a little on the small side, having only been planted in recent years, and we didn't have a gun. Perhaps next year.
The audience were very enthusiastic about the ceremony, and soon the trees were full of soggy bread. Heaven help any birds looking for a free feast, they'll have the mother of all hangovers the next morning. I contented myself with a few mouthfuls from the wassail bowl, safe in the knowledge that we would be soon retiring to the Arches, where they serve the best cider in Bewdley, in my humble opinion.
It was 4pm. people were beginning to drift off. And I was building up a thirst. Ellie, of the Bewdley Development Trust, was ecstatic. The clickers had counted up, and reckoned we'd had nearly 3,800 people through the doors of the museum. To put that into perspective, it's about twice the average Kidderminster Harriers attendance. Not bad going.
We went off to the upstairs room at the Arches. I had at least three, possibly more of the excellent Robinson's cider. Aaah. the wonderful golden light of an English autumn sparkling in the glass. The stunning, fresh aroma of traditional cider apple varieties. The long, clean after-taste.Well that's what it says on the website. And who am I to argue? We sang a few songs, played a few tunes, and I got together with the ever enthusiastic Ellie to discuss the press release. We decided on a few words for the local rags, and then discussed the Apple Grower's Co-operative. "The farm where they have the cider-press, they have a nice camping barn, you know. If you wanted to invite other sides to the harvest festival in September. We need to start planning that soon. I'll be in touch in a few weeks."
