That was the weekend that was! What a brilliant couple of days. It started with cleaning – now I know that doesn’t sound too great but it was very satisfying if you’re in the mood and are intending to go out in short order, which I did. First on the agenda was Morris dancing at the Plough. If you think of Morris dancing as a bit twee, prancing around waving hankies in the air, then Way of the Wyrd are a breath of fresh air; menacing, dressed in purple and black with fierce make-up and jingling boots, they stomp and roar and smash sticks together in a very satisfying way. Unfortunately it was a very cold day and Morris dancers of necessity perform outside, so I was thoroughly chilled off when the time came to go into the pub. Alas, it wasn’t much warmer inside; the pub is sadly in the process of closing down as the brewery won’t do the necessary repairs to the kitchen, meaning that they can’t serve food. It’s a real shame; they never did keep the beer very well but the pub itself is great; an old coaching inn with large lounge and small bar and a great garden outside. They’ve tried hard with it, putting on live music and barbecues, but as often happens the brewery (Bass in this case) weren’t willing to stump up for repairs. So sadly the next singaround will be our last at this venue.
This is particularly sad as the singaround just gets better and better; on Saturday we had 30-40 people including spectators, about 25 of whom were playing or singing. There was a weird truncated bass guitar with 6 strings (?) played by Wulf, who enjoys bringing in strange instruments; a mandolin, a violin, a banjo played by a man who lives on a boat in Warwick, and lots of percussion including bodhran, drum and maracas. I of course did my orange poem (see Friday’s post) as well as one about Mondegreens. I’m going to have to change that to work in lots of new Mondegreens, and to take out one which nobody seems to get: ‘communication let me down/but arm left ear’:
https://genius.com/Spandau-ballet-communication-lyrics
So after that it was off to pick up a friend and thence to the local mosque for the Iftar. Iftar is the breaking of the fast during Ramadan, which takes place at sunset. As we were asked to arrive at 5.30 I assumed they were being a bit lax about the times. Not a bit of it. We arrived, were given free hijabs (these were not compulsory but I put one on, not because I agree with it but because I didn’t want to seem disrespectful to my hosts.) We sat and chatted for a while. I was in the women’s room because the sexes are segregated, so I didn’t see how many men were there but there were at least 60 in our half of the hall. During our chat, some prayers came over the tannoy: nobody took a blind bit of notice of these, which I thought was strange, but there you go. At about 6.25 there were more prayers and some short talks, after which we were invited to break the fast with dried dates and fresh fruit. There were also spring rolls and samosas as well as small rolls which turned out to be filled with chicken. I thought, that’s not a great meal but hey ho, it’s nice of them to invite us. I blotted my copy-book by taking a drink before this point, which just shows you how hard it must be to fast from food and liquids, but my companion assured me it didn’t matter. After breaking the fast there were more prayers – at some point some of the women went into a corner and did the prostration movements, though most people didn’t – and then the main course came out; rice and curry. It was lovely; and when we’d finished that there were cup-cakes and chocolate cakes and doughnuts and they kept plying us with more and more until we begged for mercy. I have also tremendous respect for the fast; I can’t even manage to fast for a day, and that’s with drinking plenty of liquids. I can’t imagine getting up at 4 a m, making a meal and then fasting from food and drink for the next 14 hours, though I suppose it’s easier if you’re doing it with others. It makes giving up chocolate for Lent look a bit pale – though that’s still a good thing to do.
So that was Saturday. I felt quite spiritually stimulated by the Iftar and warmed by their sense of community, so I enjoyed Quaker Meeting in the morning. After that I wandered into the park to see the Morris dancers again. Were they on at 12.30? No, no sign of them, so I went home, ate something and came out again at 1. No sign. But it was lovely in the sunshine so I sat and soaked it up and eventually two purple-and-black people came along bearing instruments. ‘We’re performing at 2,’ they said. So I went home again and told OH about it before attacking the cooker which I had previously primed with cleaner. Then back to the park where not one but two ‘sides’ (that’s what they call a team of dancers) were assembled. The other side is a bit more on the twee end of the spectrum and don’t do much but twirl about waving beribboned sticks, so I wasn’t so keen on them. OH came along and we met various other people; I was also greatly entertained by a couple of small girls who were copying all the dances. Then home to write a poem about the closing of the Plough in Thorpe Acre. I’ve based it on Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, and thought we might all sing it until I realised how impossible GYBR is to sing…
It’s over, let it go… Monday now, so back to work.
Kirk out
Sarada Gray 