Showing posts with label Husborne Crawley. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Husborne Crawley. Show all posts
Wednesday, 7 October 2009
The Holy Cider Apple of Husborne Crawley
While collecting the Redstreak crop for our Beaker cider, Burdwit came across this wonderful and rare object. We believe, given that this is clearly a fisherman, that we have a Somerset Redstreak in the image of St Peter. Normally we'd regard this as a thing of great significance and possibly a portent of something. But after the End of the World last week we're going to have to calm things down a bit and just regard it as "interesting". We were going to put it in the Beaker Museum, but unfortunately Young Keith got a bit carried away and pulped it.
Monday, 5 January 2009
Twelfth Night
I know it's traditional to burn the festive greenery on Twelfth Night, but please can you all be careful? That holly seems pretty dry, and the flames were shooting out earlier. And I don't want to see anyone else trying to get the tree on the fire. It's just too big. And if it did catch - well, it's a new Moot House. Let's keep it for a bit longer this time.
Also, can you note that it's only the everygreens that are supposed to be burnt - mistletoe, holly, pine boughs etc. There were bits of glass all over the place after Algai threw the fairy lights on. It was even worse that she left them plugged in.
Also, can you note that it's only the everygreens that are supposed to be burnt - mistletoe, holly, pine boughs etc. There were bits of glass all over the place after Algai threw the fairy lights on. It was even worse that she left them plugged in.
Monday, 29 December 2008
Panto Service
In an attempt to make our worship more "relevant" (whatever that means), to attract a family congregation, and to try and raise the attendance above Saturday's two people, we have decided we needed more innovation. We know that other religious movements have tried clowns, so given the time of year we thought - what better than the Panto Service?
Leading participants:
The Crone (the Druidical equivalent of a Dame - a man pretending to be a woman)
The Principal Druid (a woman dressed up as a man)
The Pantomime Unicorn (like a pantomime horse, and yet somehow more mystical)
The Baddie (Drayton Parslow, just acting normally)
Introit
During the entrance procession, the congregation may shout "He's Behind You!" to the Principal Druid. Upon the Principal Druid turning round, the Baddie should hide behind a couple of acolytes.
Dividing the Congregation
One half sings "Bind us together" together with the Principal Druid. The other half sings "Kum Ba Yah" with the Crone. Nobody wins.
Contentious neo-paganism
Archdruid: The hills and forests are filled with the divine. The brooks are the the flowing life-blood of Mother Gaia.
All: Oh no, they're not!
Archdruid: Oh yes, they are are.
All: Oh no, they're not....
The Amusing Chase Scene
In which the Baddie chases the Principal Druid round the Orchard. Involving much amusing hiding behind trees, suddenly coming face-to-face and both running away, and tripping over branches. All done in a strictly liturgical pattern.
The acrobatic interlude
In which Hnaef and his acrobatic team will break several bones and strain a number of muscles, while attempting to do headsprings over the altar.
The Flying Scene
The Principal Druid discovers that, simply by hooking herself up to the harness provided, she can pronounce the final blessing from a point 20 feet above the congregation. And then hang there for a while as Hnaef tries to work out how to lower her back down again.
Don't forget, everytime you say you don't believe in Beaker People, somewhere in the forest a dryad dies.
Leading participants:
The Crone (the Druidical equivalent of a Dame - a man pretending to be a woman)
The Principal Druid (a woman dressed up as a man)
The Pantomime Unicorn (like a pantomime horse, and yet somehow more mystical)
The Baddie (Drayton Parslow, just acting normally)
Introit
During the entrance procession, the congregation may shout "He's Behind You!" to the Principal Druid. Upon the Principal Druid turning round, the Baddie should hide behind a couple of acolytes.
Dividing the Congregation
One half sings "Bind us together" together with the Principal Druid. The other half sings "Kum Ba Yah" with the Crone. Nobody wins.
Contentious neo-paganism
Archdruid: The hills and forests are filled with the divine. The brooks are the the flowing life-blood of Mother Gaia.
All: Oh no, they're not!
Archdruid: Oh yes, they are are.
All: Oh no, they're not....
The Amusing Chase Scene
In which the Baddie chases the Principal Druid round the Orchard. Involving much amusing hiding behind trees, suddenly coming face-to-face and both running away, and tripping over branches. All done in a strictly liturgical pattern.
The acrobatic interlude
In which Hnaef and his acrobatic team will break several bones and strain a number of muscles, while attempting to do headsprings over the altar.
The Flying Scene
The Principal Druid discovers that, simply by hooking herself up to the harness provided, she can pronounce the final blessing from a point 20 feet above the congregation. And then hang there for a while as Hnaef tries to work out how to lower her back down again.
Don't forget, everytime you say you don't believe in Beaker People, somewhere in the forest a dryad dies.
Tuesday, 23 December 2008
Ritual Lake
That's a really inspiring, really worthy idea that Young Keith has had. By blocking-up one end of the brook, he's planning to create a Ritual Lake.
The idea of a Ritual Lake has all sorts of echoes in mythology and religion. We think of the Lady in the Lake, who handed a sword to Arthur. Of the lakes into which swords, coins and other precious items were thrown as offerings to the Guardians. Of the story of Hermaphroditus and Salmacis.
Young Keith's plan is that we are going to be able to create wooden pathways across the Ritual Lake - areas of liminality, neither water nor land. In other words, thin places. When the sun rises over the mist on the lake, says Young Keith, we will feel close to the earth, and also to heaven.
Some have pointed out that, if the lake reaches the depth that Young Keith is planning, it will flood most of Husborne Crawley. But I shouldn't worry too much. Given the local geology, the water's draining away into the Greensand as fast as it can flow in. In normal circumstances we'd point this out to him, but he's busy and happy so we'll tell him after Christmas.
The idea of a Ritual Lake has all sorts of echoes in mythology and religion. We think of the Lady in the Lake, who handed a sword to Arthur. Of the lakes into which swords, coins and other precious items were thrown as offerings to the Guardians. Of the story of Hermaphroditus and Salmacis.
Young Keith's plan is that we are going to be able to create wooden pathways across the Ritual Lake - areas of liminality, neither water nor land. In other words, thin places. When the sun rises over the mist on the lake, says Young Keith, we will feel close to the earth, and also to heaven.
Some have pointed out that, if the lake reaches the depth that Young Keith is planning, it will flood most of Husborne Crawley. But I shouldn't worry too much. Given the local geology, the water's draining away into the Greensand as fast as it can flow in. In normal circumstances we'd point this out to him, but he's busy and happy so we'll tell him after Christmas.
Sunday, 25 May 2008
Down the Doily Mines
It is wonderful how, as we become more familiar with the People Called Beaker, we are continually enlightened as to the wonders of this Rule of Life. I was yesterday initiated into one of the Beaker mysteries.
As is fairly well known, our Beaker outlets (such as the World of Woad, Woburn, the London Luton Airport Beakorium, Madame Eileen's waxworks in the Marylebone Road and the newly-opened EuroBeaker in Paris) do a roaring trade in authentic Beaker doilies. Doilies are a quintessentially Beaker object, their roundness and whiteness an echo of the beauty of the full moon.
Yesterday morning, with a solemn and reverent air, Hnaef drew we three novitiates to one side, and explained that we had so far enjoyed the Beaker environment in a state of leisure. Now we had to learn the other side of the Beaker Coin (of which, of course, no such thing existed - the original Beaker Folk living in a state of Edenic, pre-currency bliss, each meeting the others' needs, and never having their Advance Corporation Tax stolen).
Hnaef then led us to the Pressing Shed. Never before had we been allowed over the red-and-white tape that separates the Pressing Shed from the Orchard - even though we had oftentimes seen the more experienced Beakers heading down the path towards it after the Pouring-out of Beakers ceremony, and heard the groans of spiritual enlightenment and whacks of endeavour from within. Inside the Pressing Shed, we were shown a large stack of square blank sheets of genuine wholemeal doily paper; a doily press; and the doily-whacking machine. And for the rest of the day we three new Beaker Folk enjoyed the spiritual enliftment that can only be attained through brain-numbing manual work.
First Orville would select the next stack of doily blanks. She would arrange them on the press-plate. Then Gruntrothrix would slam down the doily-press, cutting through the paper as easily as a knife through formica. He would then pass them to me, and I would bang the holes out of the doilies - whacking handfuls of them against the whacking-bar, while the vacuum device sucked the resulting lint out into the recycling bag. To be honest after a while your wrist starts to hurt, but Young Keith came round every hour with flagons of traditional Beaker Cider to dull the pain and increase the spiritual intensity.
A truly wonderful experience of traditional Beaker Life. Unfortunately I have been coughing up lint all night - but Hnaef assures me that after a month or two my lungs will be used to it.
As is fairly well known, our Beaker outlets (such as the World of Woad, Woburn, the London Luton Airport Beakorium, Madame Eileen's waxworks in the Marylebone Road and the newly-opened EuroBeaker in Paris) do a roaring trade in authentic Beaker doilies. Doilies are a quintessentially Beaker object, their roundness and whiteness an echo of the beauty of the full moon.
Yesterday morning, with a solemn and reverent air, Hnaef drew we three novitiates to one side, and explained that we had so far enjoyed the Beaker environment in a state of leisure. Now we had to learn the other side of the Beaker Coin (of which, of course, no such thing existed - the original Beaker Folk living in a state of Edenic, pre-currency bliss, each meeting the others' needs, and never having their Advance Corporation Tax stolen).
Hnaef then led us to the Pressing Shed. Never before had we been allowed over the red-and-white tape that separates the Pressing Shed from the Orchard - even though we had oftentimes seen the more experienced Beakers heading down the path towards it after the Pouring-out of Beakers ceremony, and heard the groans of spiritual enlightenment and whacks of endeavour from within. Inside the Pressing Shed, we were shown a large stack of square blank sheets of genuine wholemeal doily paper; a doily press; and the doily-whacking machine. And for the rest of the day we three new Beaker Folk enjoyed the spiritual enliftment that can only be attained through brain-numbing manual work.
First Orville would select the next stack of doily blanks. She would arrange them on the press-plate. Then Gruntrothrix would slam down the doily-press, cutting through the paper as easily as a knife through formica. He would then pass them to me, and I would bang the holes out of the doilies - whacking handfuls of them against the whacking-bar, while the vacuum device sucked the resulting lint out into the recycling bag. To be honest after a while your wrist starts to hurt, but Young Keith came round every hour with flagons of traditional Beaker Cider to dull the pain and increase the spiritual intensity.
A truly wonderful experience of traditional Beaker Life. Unfortunately I have been coughing up lint all night - but Hnaef assures me that after a month or two my lungs will be used to it.
Sunday, 18 May 2008
Burton's first Moot
Dear Readers, how could one describe one's joy at one's first Moot? This first evening of the full moon (which one of the Extreeme Primitive Fertility Folk described as the "Tupping Moon", whatever that may mean) I was invited to the Moot, or - as the Beaker People say - "drawn Moot" to receive my Beaker Name. Along with Arthur and Maud Beesley, I went and stood before Archdruid Eileen - resplendent in her fake vegetarian roe deer horns - to be named. Arthur was very keen on being called Cymbeline, but Eileen thought this a bit Shakespearian, and called him Gruntothrix. Likewise Maud wanted to be called Boadicea. However the Archdruid pointed out that this was a nasty Roman transliteration and, history being written by the victors, gave her the name "Orville". I'm not sure if this was a traditional Beaker name, but she put up with it.
For myself, Eileen seemed quite taken with my given name anyway - "it sounds like a small village with a very large bypass in Oxfordshire", she remarked - and so I retain the name of Burton. It's distinctly Angle, rather than Beaker, but - do you know what - I think I may grow to like it.
For myself, Eileen seemed quite taken with my given name anyway - "it sounds like a small village with a very large bypass in Oxfordshire", she remarked - and so I retain the name of Burton. It's distinctly Angle, rather than Beaker, but - do you know what - I think I may grow to like it.
Tuesday, 13 May 2008
A Beaker Initiation
A strange and wonderful occasion, my initiation as a Beaker Person.
I and the other new Folk were dragged from our beds in the bed at 2am by members of the Community. From the smell of ale and home-made cider, I can only assume they had been frequenting the White Horse prior to having a drop after-hours in the community Bar - perhaps the consumption of such libations is part of the preparations for this great event.
Before the event, I was made to change into the traditional Beaker clothing. Frankly I'm not sure how authentic the Cameron tartan is for a pre-Celtic tradition, but maybe that's where the Camerons inherited the design from...
Blind-folded, we three new initiates were led out of the orchard and across a field to the sound of tabors, pipes and - strangely - a saxophone. We were made to kneel while the chanting proceeded around us. Initially it was simply a repeated "Om", although someone - I suspect it may have been young Keith - varied this at one point to "Burn the Witch!". That they subsequently segued into "Summer is i cumen in" would make anyone who has seen The Wicker Man rather nervous. However the ceremony was pronounced to be complete, save for a ceremonial cleansing ceremony. I can't help thinking this was rather clumsily carried out, as we ended up face-down in the mud at the bottom of the brook. We waited for a while in the brook but, since nothing else happened, we presumed our initiation to be complete. Taking our blindfolds off we walked back to the Great House to discover that it was locked and dark.
Cold and wet, we realised we had to find somewhere to stay the night, so we were relieved to find the potting shed. However we were much less cheerful when we discovered that the Hermit of Suspicion and Hermit of Imprecation were both already in residence. One spent the rest of the night watching us very closely, while the other swore under his breath and occasionally threw pots at us.
The funny thing is, when I mentioned the Initiation this morning to Archdruid Eileen, she pretended not to know what I was talking about. Perhaps the secrecy is part of the rite?
I and the other new Folk were dragged from our beds in the bed at 2am by members of the Community. From the smell of ale and home-made cider, I can only assume they had been frequenting the White Horse prior to having a drop after-hours in the community Bar - perhaps the consumption of such libations is part of the preparations for this great event.
Before the event, I was made to change into the traditional Beaker clothing. Frankly I'm not sure how authentic the Cameron tartan is for a pre-Celtic tradition, but maybe that's where the Camerons inherited the design from...
Blind-folded, we three new initiates were led out of the orchard and across a field to the sound of tabors, pipes and - strangely - a saxophone. We were made to kneel while the chanting proceeded around us. Initially it was simply a repeated "Om", although someone - I suspect it may have been young Keith - varied this at one point to "Burn the Witch!". That they subsequently segued into "Summer is i cumen in" would make anyone who has seen The Wicker Man rather nervous. However the ceremony was pronounced to be complete, save for a ceremonial cleansing ceremony. I can't help thinking this was rather clumsily carried out, as we ended up face-down in the mud at the bottom of the brook. We waited for a while in the brook but, since nothing else happened, we presumed our initiation to be complete. Taking our blindfolds off we walked back to the Great House to discover that it was locked and dark.
Cold and wet, we realised we had to find somewhere to stay the night, so we were relieved to find the potting shed. However we were much less cheerful when we discovered that the Hermit of Suspicion and Hermit of Imprecation were both already in residence. One spent the rest of the night watching us very closely, while the other swore under his breath and occasionally threw pots at us.
The funny thing is, when I mentioned the Initiation this morning to Archdruid Eileen, she pretended not to know what I was talking about. Perhaps the secrecy is part of the rite?
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