Stepping Out

As I wandered innocently into town yesterday on my way to the pub for a pint and a quite cigar, I suddenly found myself surrounded by bearded men in astonishing hats clad in colourful bits of rags with jingle bells strapped to their ankles.  They were prancing about in a circle to the music of an accordion, chanting and banging big sticks together.

This sort of thing happens all the time here, really it does, which is why I often carry a camera.

The men were not insane (well, not necessarily, anyway) they were Morris dancers performing a traditional English folk dance.  Women dancers--similarly dressed and called Magogs--were present as well, but they were waving handkerchiefs instead of sticks.  There are thousands of these groups throughout England and I reckon most of them were packed into the town square on this particular afternoon.

I stopped to watch for a while (I had to, I couldn't squeeze through the crowd) before making my way to the pub where I ordered a pint and savoured the relative peace and quite.  This lasted a full ten minutes, until a sudden cloudburst sent the dancers--replete with accordions, banjos, sticks and gaudy hats--jingling into the pub with me, the barmaid and several startled patrons.  They all gathered into their own groups, drinking pints out of tankards that appeared to be part of their wardrobe and raised the raucous level of the pub from intensive care ward to cup final crowd level.


For those of you not keeping up on the back-story, I used to be an Irish Step Dancer, and I still miss those days terribly.  I miss the camaraderie, the practicing, and the ritual of preparing for a performance.  I miss friendships bonded by a shared passion and I miss the fact that dancing kept me slim and supple, resembling an athlete instead of a rusting, bloated geezer who groans every time he bends down to pick up his socks, which is what I am rapidly turning into.


When I arrived in England, I searched diligently for an Irish Dance team but there were none to be found.  All there were, it seemed, were Morris dancers, who I was currently elbow-to-elbow with, affording me my first up-close inspection of their costumes.

Irish dancing, to be sure, involved fancy costumes, but that was mostly for the women.  I was in the enviable position of being able to perform, change my shoes and walk into a pub with wearing my dance outfit and not draw the slightest attention.  Those were good days, and I felt the longing for them quite keenly in the company of these foreign folk dancers.


After about fifteen minutes, one of them shouted, "It's dancing weather", and the pub suddenly cleared.  I resumed my pint and my nostalgic musings and, eventually, headed home.

I stopped to watch them again, this time on purpose.  Could I actually join one of these groups?  Could my passion for folk dancing overcome the necessity of donning a costume that looked like a cross between lederhosen, colourful chicken feathers and Clydesdale tackle?  I thought not.

Sadly, and carrying just a little more weight around my middle, I turned toward home.

If only their costumes weren't quite so silly; I really fancy the idea of swinging those sticks around.

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