The Rearing Of The Stripy Stick!

Of course, the other thing I promised to 'enthral' you with, dear reader, is the fascinating tale of our famous village maypole. At some 90 feet it's one of the tallest in the country and the only one to be lowered, redecorated, and raised - amidst much festival and celebration - every three years. This year was one such year.

Mrs V and I, for our sins (which are many fold), are heavily involved with all things stripy stick, ably aided and abetted by a small band of - let's be fair - fellow oddballs who forgoe regular meals, a social life or time with their family to ensure the continuance of a centuries old tradition in organizing all things maypole related. There's an awful lot of work involved and - it must be said - a particularly large proportion of it falls upon Mrs V and myself, so we found ourselves having to 'hit the ground running' when we got back from Barbados in early May to discover that plans and preparations well behind schedule.

The garlands - seen here in pride of place, half way up the stripy stick - are hand-sewn by a small group of ladies from the village, ably led by Mrs V. She sewed the majority of the cloth rosettes - a thousand of which adorn each garland - and then had to put all four garlands together in just three weeks. It was then my job to organise the afore mentioned fellow oddballs, friends and families to help carry them, door-to-door, around the village. This is (a) all part of our great stripy stick 'tradtion' and (more importantly) (b) a fantastic way to raise much needed cash. On top of garland duties, a stage had to be built from scratch on which our Maypole Queen and local dignitaries could watch the village school children perform maypole dancing. My father (also foolish enough to be on the Trust) stepped into the breach and turned out a stage fit for the RSC to strut their stuff on, bless 'im. It was a very, very busy few weeks.

The stripy stick is lowered at Easter (as noted in my last post, I think you'll find) and raised again on Spring Bank Holiday. We have a parade through the village - led by the Maypole Queen - followed by traditional maypole dancing. Then, to end the day's festivities, some loon climbs 90 feet up the newly raised pole to spin the weather vane on top. Why? Well, because it's there, I suppose, though you'll see Leeds United win the Premiership or Gordon Brown manage a natural smile before you'll catch me attempting it.

It's a strange but wonderful old tradition which we're pretty darned proud of preserving. I could rattle on far too long about the problems we when the village considered abandonning the tradition due to 'health and safety concerns', how we've had to work our arses off since then to get much needed support from the villagers (and cash from the their pockets) and the sleepless nights we've endured since getting involved over 6 years ago, but I think it's probably all a little dry and arcane for this blog - after all, we like to keep things light and airy around here.

However, I'm posting the following photos to try offer something of the flavour of our big day, which really went surprising well. I think it will also give you an idea of what can happen in a small northern village when too many like-minded people spend just a little too much time together in a pub...

The newly painted stripy stick is carried by men of the parish - stout and true - to its home in the centre of the village

The 90 foot stripy stick is slowly hoisted into place

The stripy stick stands, once more, resplendent in the centre of the village

Brave? Stupid? Who cares, as long as it's not me?

Mr V is Back, Back, Back!

Huzzah! I'm back with you after a rather lengthy hiatus from all things blog. I have endured the frigid wastes of England in winter, witnessed (of all things) a White Easter, played a significant part in both lowering and subsequently raising a 90 foot maypole, lazed in the tropical heat of a Caribbean sojourn, succumbed to a skin complaint that has left me looking like the elephant man and put me on antibiotics for the next three months and, most recently, tolerated the combined forces of some of Mother Nature's fiercest pollen-emitting spawn.

But now, dear reader, I return to regale you with the musings of a rather deluded blogger who's still naïve enough to think that there really are any dear readers out there, so here goes:

We had two thoroughly dull months after getting back from Australia, which were spent mostly whining about the weather, catching cold-after-cold-after-cold and generally bleating about how much nicer it was Down Under. Remember when you came back from that crazy two-week holiday to Ibiza when you were seventeen? You know the one, where you became best mates with some really cool kids from Manchester with whom you exchanged addresses and were going to keep in touch with - like - forever (but never did); where all the bar staff knew your name and were genuinely 'sad' to see you fly home. And when you got home you and your friend (who you'd bonded with considerably whilst you were away together) decided that enough was enough, you were both getting off this treadmill, sticking two fingers up at 'the man' and heading back out there as soon as you got the cash together. You'd get a job in a bar, rent a flat together, and sleep with all the package-holiday-tottie that the tour operators could throw at you.

Then, after a week back at work and a dose of antibiotics for the chest infection you developed shortly after your return (probably brought on by the 40-a-day Malboro habit you had whilst away), you realised it was a pretty crap idea, got your head down and started saving for next year's holiday to Zante. Ring any bells?

Well, we experienced a slightly more middle-aged version of this on our return from Oz: Why on earth were we sticking it out in this ill-governed, wet, dangerous country of ours, over-taxed and down at heel as it is, over-run with ugly teenagers in nylon tracksuits and East European immigrants? Why the hell don't we just pack up and ship out, start a new life in a sunny, happy, safe and optimistic country? Now, whilst most (if not all) of the afore mentioned rant is an absolutely valid reason to get the f*ck out of this diseased isle of ours it isn't, of course, all that easy. I have a business; we currently own two houses (we rather wished we didn't, but have you seen the state of the property market at the moment?); we have parents who - if it weren't for Tizer - may very well wish us all the best and send us on our way, but we do have Tizer and Tizer deserves to grow up around her grandparents and her grandparents deserve to grow old around her. So, once again, reality hits (or at least relentlessly tugs at your trouser leg) and you get back into the groove - or the rut, depending on how you look at it.

It's still massively tempting though. The weather, the food, the people, the lifestyle; Australia truly is a fantastic country. I think that the main reason more people don't try and start new lives down there is the same as us - that it's one hell of a long way and, unless you can take your friends and family with you, you have to accept that you're not going to see a great deal of them anymore if you go. Ah well, maybe we'll bide our time and look at one of our other favourite spots - south-west Ireland. Again, nice people, good food and - lest it go unnoticed - some bloody cracking pubs. The weather is far from ideal come winter, but at least you're close to home.

Anyway, less of such musings. That was then, this is now, and we've had a rather jolly first half to the year all told. We had a fantastic two weeks in Barbados at the end of April - I'll pop some photos and stuff on here in my next post - after which I'll have to give you a blow-by-blow account of our great Maypole Festival. Blimey!