Footprints in the flour

A few days before leaving on my latest expedition I met with my director who advised me that she was planning a longer-term investigation in the Netherlands around the Sixteenth to Seventeenth centuries.

Of course, I was immediately interested, having been there when the pilgrims were preparing to leave for America, and the director suggested that I might be a good choice for someone to look for a vacant property that could be bought to use as a base for operations.

One of the places that was recommended to me was a windmill. The miller had become disabled recently as the result of an accident and his wife, who had become his caregiver, had expressed an interest in selling the mill as a going concern.

When I got there the miller himself was sitting under an apple tree in a wheelchair; literally a chair which had been adapted by mounting it on a low cart. The extent of his injuries was quite apparent; he was missing his right leg from the knee down, and all of his right arm. He admitted that his injuries had been caused by the mill machinery, but he also admitted that he had been foolish enough to try to carry out a running repair when he was drunk, that should have been done when the mill was idle.

Although he is clearly in some pain, he insists on showing me through the mill itself, with the help of his wife. He asks me if I have considered running the mill myself, pointing out that he has added several labor-saving devices all of which are powered from the mill's main drive shaft. The devices include an ingenious harnessing of the power to operate sack hoists which can be used to lift heavy weights both inside and outside the mill, and a boulter, for sifting flour to produce a finer grade. Of course, the mill also makes use of several simple machines such as ropes and pulleys for lifting, screws to regulate the grain feed, and levers on the weighing scales.

My own thinking is that, for the rather high one thousand nine hundred and fifty guilders asking price, we could not only have a useful base of operations in this time, but a very important source of much-needed income in local coin.

Before committing to a deal it seems sensible to ask the miller about the craft of milling. If there is one thing that I have learned in my travels (and my colleagues agree) it is that there are very few occupations in this age that don't involve some knowledge of specialized skills. The miller chuckles and tells me that when he started learning, all his master would tell him was that he needed to know how to "whistle up the wind" on a calm day! However, there are some things that are worth knowing and he doesn't mind teaching me. For example, whenever you have to make a part for machinery that will be exposed to water on a regular basis, use elm rather than oak, for elm will outlast oak when immersed in water and both are roughly equally hard for durability.

It is as we are descending to the exit door that I hear something scrabbling on the stairs behind us, and turn around just in time to see a very-well-fed mouse skitter down the wall and into a crevice. Despite being startled by the mouse, I am reminded of a favorite song from my own younger days: (also in Dutch)

X:73                          % number
T:A Mouse lived in a windmill
M:3/4
O:http://www.mudcat.org/thread.CFM?threadID=10434 Q:1/4=160 P:ABABABA K:G P:A VERSE ^A6 |"G" B2 d2 DD |"C" E2 G2 G2 |"F" A2c2C2 |"Bb" D4 D2 |"Eb" G2^A2^A,^A, | w:A mouse lived in a wind-mill in old Am-ster-dam, A wind-mill with a "Ab" C2 ^D2 ^D2 |"D" D2 F2 A2 |"G" G2 B3 ^A |B2 d2 D2 |"C" E2 G2 G2 |"F" A c3 C2 | w:mouse in and he was-n't grous-in'. He sang eve-ry morn-ing, "How luc-ky I "Bb" D6 |"Eb" G2 ^A2 ^A,^A, |"Ab" C2 ^D2 ^D2 |"D" D2 F2 A2| "G" G6 || w:am, Liv-ing in a wind-mill in old Am-ster-dam!" P:B CHORUS G6 |-G2 B2 d2| "C" e6 | c6 |"G" d2 B2 G2 | D6 |"D" c2 A2 F2 | D4 e2 |"G" d5 ^c | w:I_ saw a mouse! Where? There on the stair! Where on the stair? Right there! A d^c d2 ^d2 |"C" e6 | c6 |"G" d2 B2 G2 | D2 e2 d2 |"A" ^c2 ^cA ^c2 |"D" c2 A2 F2 | w:lit-tle mouse with clogs on. Well I de-clare! Go-ing clip-clip-pe-ty-clop on the "G" G2 DEGB | A2 G2 A2 | G6 |] w:stair! * * * * * * Oh yeah! W: W:This mouse, he got lonesome, he took him a wife W:A windmill with mice in, it’s hardly surprisin’ W:She sang every morning “How lucky I am W:Living in a windmill in old Amsterdam” W: W:(Chorus) W: W:First they had triplets and then they had quins W:A windmill with quins in, triplets and twins in W:They sang every morning “How lucky we are W:Living in a windmill in Amsterdam – ya” W: W:(Chorus) W: W:The daughters got married and so did the sons W:The windmill had christenings when no one was listening W:They all sang in chorus “How lucky we am W:Living in a windmill in old Amsterdam” W: W:(Chorus) W: W:A mouse lived in a windmill, so snug and so nice W:There’s nobody there now but a whole load of mice W: W:EEN MUIS IN EEN MOLEN IN MOOI AMSTERDAM W: W:Er was eens een muisje in mooi Amsterdam W:Dat zat in een molen heel stiekem verscholen W:Hij zong elke morgen: 'Wat is het toch fijn W:Een muis in een molen in Mokum te zijn' W: W:REFREIN: Ik zag een muis. Waar? W:Daar op de trap. Waar op de trap? W:Nou, daar! W:Een kleine muis op klompjes W:Nee, 't is geen grap W:'t Ging van klipklipperdieklap op de trap W:Oh ja! W: W:Het muisje was eenzaam en zocht naar een vrouw W:En 'Piep' zei de muis in het voorhuis, 'ik trouw' W:Dus zongen ze samen 'Wat is het toch fijn W:Een muis in een molen in Mokum te zijn'. REFREIN W: W:Ma Muis kreeg een vijfling, en allen gezond W:Dus aten de muisjes beschuitjes met muisjes W:En iedereen zong toen 'Wat is het toch fijn W:Een muis in een molen in Mokum te zijn'. REFREIN W: W:De muizenfamilie werd vreselijk groot W:De molenaar vluchtte, hij was als de dood W:Voor de muizen die zongen ' Wat is het toch fijn W:Een muis in een molen in Mokum te zijn. REFREIN W: W:De muizen die hebben het fijn naar hun zin W:De molen staat leeg want geen mens durft er in... W:Ieeeee! 

To convert the code above to sheet music, or listen to the tunes, copy the code for a single song, then paste it here and [submit].

Of course, by the time we are on the ground outside the mill once more, two of the mill cats are snoozing in the sun. Blissfully ignorant of the juicy meal they might have had.

Stand and Deliver!

I accept a certain amount of risk as an occupational hazard of travelling in time, so I suppose I have to accept the consequences when I find myself in the middle of a hazardous situation, although to be honest, it doesn't happen very often. One of the easiest ways I've found to infiltrate myself into a time and place is to join a travelling party early in the day as they prepare to set out. Of course, that also means I am accepting the same risk as my fellow-travellers, of being intercepted and robbed on the road, and in May of 1721 my complacency about the potential risk was confronted with the reality in the middle of Epping Forest, miles from the nearest village. It took me a few minutes to realize what was happening when we were ordered to disembark from the coach in which we were travelling. A number of possible causes for our unscheduled halt ran through my mind:

• One of the horses had been lamed? (during the ride one of my companions told me how a couple of years ago, the Essex Gang, led by Mr.Turpin, sowed the road with caltrops, laming the horses of an express team in a most cruel manner).
  
• A wheel had come off the coach? (unlikely, the coach would probably have tipped)
• A fallen tree blocking the road?

When I saw the masked horseman pointing a flintlock pistol I got the shock of my adventurous life. One of the most notorious highwaymen of the period is "Dick" Turpin, originally an Essex lad, who served his apprenticeship as a butcher and has become notorious for his daring and violent robberies. He has already outlived the Essex Gang with whom he allied for a while; apparently his cavalier disregard for hazard was more than they felt their lives justified. But it seems my concerns were not altogether justified; our interrogator's manners were very much those of a gentleman, assisting myself and an older lady in dismounting from the coach (not the easiest maneuver in a hoopskirt), and while he would not spare any coin or jewelry, at least he apologized to us for inconveniencing us so rudely.
X:1
T:Air XX, March in Rinaldo with Drums and Trumpets % title
T:Adapted by John Gay for The Beggar's Opera
C: % composer
O:http://www.gutenberg.org/files/25063/25063-h/music/air_XX.pdf % origin.
M:C % meter
L:1/8 % length of shortest note
Q: % tempo
K:Bb % key
V:1 % voice 1
z2 z2 DE | F4 F4 | F6 Bc | dcde d2 d2 |
w:Let us take the Road. Hark! I hear the Sound of Coach-es!
d4 f4 | dcde d2 d2 | d4 f3 e | e2 cd edcB |
w:The Hou-r of At-tack ap-proach-es, To your Arms, bra-ve Boy-s an-d
c6 || AB | c4 c4 | !trill! c6 f2 | FGAB c2 d2 |
w:load. See the Ball I hold! Let the Chy-mists toil like Ass-
e4 f3 e | d2 cd edcB | c2 F2 f3 e | dcBc !trill! c3 B |
w:es, Our Fire their Fi-re sur--pas--ses And turns all our Lead__ to_
B6 |]
w:Gold.
Our assailant did, however, unhitch one of the team of horses, which he took with him. While the animal might not be broken to saddle, and difficult to ride, it still represents a considerable loss to the coaching company. The shortfall in the team means that any further progress will be painfully slow, and some of us will have to continue on foot, alongside the coach. And I will probably have to explain to my director the loss of a couple of items of antique jewelry, which cannot be replaced. The music, which I thought would be appropriate to this little adventure, is from the Beggar's Opera by John Gay, produced by John Rich, which as one wag put it,

made Gay rich, and Rich gay

After I got back here a little research suggested that the most likely identity for our assailant would be "Captain" King, so called because of his delightfully gallant manners! To convert the code above to sheet music, or listen to the tunes, copy the code for a single song, then paste it here and [submit].

Let's go to the hop!

Thank goodness you've arrived! It's a bit of a climb, but I think it's worth it for the view across the valley.

This naughty old shepherd tells me his name is written in the Book of Life: Guglielmo Bondone. But young Giovanna there tells me everyone in the nearby town of Cortona calls him Poppa Glug on account of his drinking habit. I was flirting with him a little, but he seems more intent on something serious! (And he's sixty-seven years old, for Pete's sakes!) He excuses himself saying that "Tomorrow we may be dead of the plague, but today, how about a little smooching in the sunshine? I can give you a fine, strong baby. Does that not appeal?"

He also told me that he has been suffering with a toothache, but doesn't think it is bad enough to pull the tooth. He has been chewing on cloves to keep the pain under control. I came up here with his granddaughter Giovanna, to bring him this leather scrip with his lunch - bread made with herbs, and a chunk of sheepsmilk cheese, and a pitcher of wine. He tells me he came up here a little before the bell sounded for lauds down in the priory (about 6.00 am), with a breakfast of small honey-cakes which made the toothache worse for a bit, and will be up here until after compline (about 7.00 pm).

I'm staggered by the size of the flock of sheep Poppa Glug is watching. (I can't help thinking of him as Poppa Glug, especially after watching him drink) He tells me the flock is one hundred and twenty sheep at present (not all his own), although it varies with lambing and slaughter. The sheep are used for milk (which surprises me), wool, and eventually meat. But there isn't much need for rams, so they just get fattened for meat.

We are both invited to join Poppa Glug when his grandson takes over watching the sheep to go into the town itself; there is a dance in the piazza this evening and there will be plenty of meat and drink on offer. Who knows, we might even find some handsome young man? (He really is the most incorrigible rogue, but quite fun to be with in a non-committal way).

In the town, apart from the crowds, the first thing that strikes me is that the Italians must have been among the first people to develop high-rise buildings. Part of their Roman heritage, perhaps? and the pavements, none of them are the same, different types of stone, different textures. I'm sure I could navigate blindfold if I knew the town better, just by the feel of the pavement under my feet.

X:35 T:Saltarello 3 M:6/8 L:1/8 Z:Andy Hornby %%ID:00000da6 F: http://www.leeds.ac.uk/music/Info/RRTuneBk/gettune/00000da6.abc K:C cBA GAB|cdB c2 G|ABc ABG|cBc d2e| cgf e2d|cgf e2d|cBc A2e|Aee A3:| |:edc B2A|c2d e2d|cBc A2B|GAB c2G|ABc ABG| cBc d2e|cgf e2d|cgf e2d|cBc A2e|Aee A3:| |:ede g2c|ggc g3|ede g2e|fed e2d| cBc A2B|GAB c2G|ABc ABG|cBc d2e| cgf e2d|cgf e2d|cBc A2e|Aee A3:|

For anyone who wants to know, the band comprised three shawms (S, T, T), one of the shawm players doubled on Alto recorder solo for a couple of slow dances, a sacbut, and Nakers.

That saltarello is the one tune I could remember when I got back! If you can visualize a square full of whirling bodies, and leaping young men; this is a jumping dance, and very energetic. And although I had to sit this one out, even Poppa Glug was in the mix, throwing himself into it with gusto. I got the impression that a lot of the young men were competing to see who could make the highest jumps.

To convert the code above to sheet music, or listen to the tunes, copy the code for a single song, then paste it here and [submit].

The Mother, the Maid and the Hag in downtown Ankh-Morpork

I don't know quite what happened! I was supposed to zero in on sixteenth century Berkshire, England, but instead, found myself stumbling around in the dark, in some stinky alternate reality behind a place called "The Mended Drum" on Dwarves Night. Apparently six nights of the week, the place allows trolls in, but in the interests of keeping enough furniture to sit on, and drink off, they have separate nights when dwarves or trolls (or the undead, or what-have-you) are not allowed in. So the barkeep gives me this funny look (I stand head and shoulders above most of the drinking clientele who aren't so much drinking as sloshing it, and singing) but I still get my half-pint anyway which seems to take the paint off my throat and while I'm trying to be inconspicuous in a corner this small person who goes by Tor Stronginthearm nearly nails me with a throwing axe and insists that I join in the singing, unless I'm a troll-fancier!
X:70 % number
T:Gold! Gold! Gold! % title
C:Eodric Shortensweet (aka Myscha Aiken) % composer
O:Songs from The Gold Mind % origin.
N:Rests may be punctuated by clinksloshing tankards
N:Of authentic Dwarf ale, thumping on tables, banging
N:Of tankards on tables, or throwing things.
N:With acknowledgements to Terry Pratchett's Discworld
N:Sagas, without which this would never have happened.
M:4/4 % meter
L:1/4 % length of shortest note
Q: % tempo
K:F % key
V:1 % voice 1
"F"FCFC | "F"AGF z | "Bb"BG "F"AF | "C7"GFE z |
w:Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! "F"FCFC | "F"AGF z | "Bb"BG "F"AF | "C7"GC "F"F2 |]
w: Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!

It was after this, that three ladies entered the bar, one of whom later insisted on teaching the dwarves the song "The Hedgehog can never be buggered at all", and how to play "Cripple Mister Onion". (I found out later that the singing tutor was Mistress "Nanny" Ogg (with her disreputable cat, Greebo), and her companions, Granny Weatherwax and Magrat Garlick).

X:2
T:The Hedgehog Can Never Be Buggered At All % title
C:Eodric Shortensweet (Myscha Aiken) % composer
O:Songs from the Gold Mind % origin.
M:3/4 % meter
L:1/4 % length of shortest note
Q:240 % tempo
K:F % key
V:1 % voice 1
"F" z A B | c A B | c d e | f e d | c2 "C" A |
w:If you're need-ing some help, give the squir-rels a call, in
B G B | "F" A F A | "D" G A =B | "C" c2 "F" A/ B/ |
w:Sum-mer or Spring, but they're bus-y in Fall, but don't
c A B | c d e | f e d | c2 "C" A/ c/ |
w:both-er the hedge-hog, you'll hit a brick wall, for the
B G B | "D" A F "F" D | C D E | F2 z |]
w:hedge-hog can nev-er be bug-gered at all.
W:
W:Everybody knows dogs
W:love to play with a ball
W:If you reach for the leash they're right there in the hall
W:but the hedgehog's disdain
W:is inclined to appal
W:for the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.
W:
W:If you fall in a heap
W:you can count on a sheep
W:to have you back up on your feet standing tall
W:but the hedgehog, it seems
W:is in apathy's thrall,
W:for the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.
W:
W:You should know that a horse
W:Will support you of course,
W:And will give of his best though he stumble and fall,
W:But a hedgehog would rather
W:Remain in his stall,
W:For the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.

Towards midnight the few humans remaining in the bar gravitated to the ladies' table where I learned another of the popular songs in the city of Ankh-Morpork: A Wizard's Staff Has A Knob On The End...

X:3
T:A Wizard's Staff Has A Knob On The End % title
C:Myscha Aiken % composer
O: % origin.
M:3/4 % meter
L:1/4 % length of shortest note
Q:240 % tempo
P:ABA
K:F % key
V:1 % voice 1
P:A (VERSE) "F" z z C | F2 F | F F d | c A G | F2 A | "C" B2 c | d2 e | "F" f2 z |
w:1.A wiz-ard's staff has a knob on the end and runes run up the shaft, It's
w:2.A wiz-ard's staff has a knob on the end, Some are made from thinking wood,
z z C | F2 F | F2 d | c A G | F G A | "C" B2 A | G F E | "F" F2 z ||
w:1.long and proud and sti-ff and loud, It's the pride of wi-z-ard-craft._
w:2.With~a sapi-ent pear you'd be out to there, And you'd go blind, yes_ you would._
P:B (CHORUS)
z z C | "F" F2 F | F F d | c A G | F2 A | "C" G E D | C2 "F" C | D C A | F2 C |
w:A Wiz-ard's staff has a knob on the end, a knob on the end, a knob on the end, A
A F2 F | F F d | c A G | F2 "C" A | G A G | C D E | "F" F2 F ||
w:Wiz-ard's staff has a knob on the end, and what he does with it is ma-gic!
W:A wizard's staff has a knob on the end
W:That looks like a silver nut
W:If you start to bleat when he's taken your seat
W:He'll crack it up your butt.
W:
W:(Chorus.)
W:
W:A wizard's staff has a knob on the end
W:And the odd frog knows it's true
W:When your staff has a bend then the spell you send
W:Can fly right back at you.
W:
W:(Chorus)
W:
W:A wizard's staff has a knob on the end
W:Most useful if they knew it
W:It's just that fem isn't magical to them
W:So they never ever do it.
W:
W:(Chorus)
W:
W:(last verse maestro please)
W:A wizard's staff has a knob on the end
W:And you may think it's tragic
W:That no matter how strong or thick or long
W:All he can do with it is magic.
W:
W:(Chorus)
To convert the code above to sheet music, or listen to the tunes, copy the code for a single song, then paste it here and [submit].

Beltane Fire

When I last visited the Reverend Alleyn, I got the vaguest hint of a suspicion that there was more to the picture than I was seeing, and since my curiosity got the better of me I have gone back for a second look. I couldn't shake the feeling that Doctor Alleyn was perhaps unduly concerned with ensuring the security of his job as the vicar of the village of Bray in Berkshire, England, rather than the spiritual welfare of his charges. I admit that I should not have made a trip like this on my own, and in hindsight, I realize it was a mistake. There was nobody to back me up, to see what I saw, or failed to see.

I chose the persona of a travelling tinker, somebody whose unexpected appearance in the village would be unlikely to be questioned, somebody who could engage more or less anybody in conversation. During the first couple of days I mended kettles and cauldrons for David Boteler's wife who complained that her husband, the blacksmith, was too busy to mend his own family's pots (the shoemaker's children go unshod?), and Peter Cooper, the village reeve, whose wife Marjory proved to be something of a gossip. It was Marjory who showed me the first step on the trail that would lead me to the Beltane Hearth on the night of Saint Walpurga's feast.

To be honest, I had never heard of Saint Walpurga before, but of course, the Reverend Alleyn was good enough to enlighten me when I visited to offer my services. Born in Wessex, in the 8th century, she later helped to establish at least one German convent and is credited with powers of healing and fertility. While the Reverend has a couple of pots that need my attention, he regrets that he is unable to recompense me for my labours, which is fine by me, since I am happy to accept payment in the form of his intercession for my unsavoury soul.

It is one thing to know that the old religions persisted for a long time alongside the new, but it is quite another to see them, self-evident. It was the last day of April, the evening of my third day in the village, camped on the edge of a small coppice, when Peter Cooper, and another villager whom I didn't recognize, brought a couple of cartloads of kindling wood and faggots and stacked them in the meadow. As dusk turned to night I heard voices, as well as the bleating of sheep and squealing pigs, and kicked out my campfire moments before the leaders of the procession entered the meadow, carrying blazing torches as they drove the animals forward.

I'm not one hundred percent sure what happened after that, I think there may have been more than firewood in that fire, but I do remember the animals being driven towards the fire. The noise will stay with me for a long time. And figures, dancing naked. It's difficult to be certain, I'd drunk a pint and a half of cider earlier.

The sparks drifting from the fire put me in mind of fairies, but I didn't see any tiny flying people. And I was slightly relieved to note as I was packing the next morning, that there was no evidence of any of the animals having been eaten during the festivities.

However, I do have a memory of an old woman, squatting naked in the firelight, and something else... something very masculine! I don't think I'll ever be able to watch children dancing around a maypole again without thinking very adult thoughts!

I'm ashamed to say that I didn't make the connection until I got back here, but thinking about the old woman tripped another memory; a crude carving, high up on the roof beams of St. Michael's church, a female figure, in that same posture. It seems the figure is well-known to historical anthropologists as Sheila-na-gig.

The next morning I packed up and left as the dawn chorus started to settle down. I'm not used to drinking much and was still feeling the effects slightly, but I did manage to note that the fire in the meadow had been raked down and the grass showed plenty of bruising from a multitude of feet, so I know that at least some part of what I saw the night before really happened.

Another thing I found out after getting back here is that Beltane night is one of the two times in the year when, according to ancient Celtic belief, the boundaries between the physical world and the spiritual world are at their most easily passed. It was an interesting experience, and I have at least come back with an appropriate song from the time, but I have more questions than answers at this point.

X:51 % number
T:Now is the month of May
C:Thomas Morley
R:Air - madrigal
O:The TUMS busking book % origin.
M:2/2 % meter
L:1/4 % length of shortest note
Q: % tempo
K:C % key
V:1 % voice 1
z2 z G |: GGAA | B2 BG | B>A B ^c | d2 d A/B/ |
w:1.Now is the month of May-ing, when mer-ry lads are play-ing.
w:2.The Spring clad all in glad-ness, doth laugh at win-ter's sad-ness. Fa la
w:3.Fie! then why sit we mus-ing, youth's sweet de-light re-fus-ing?
ccBA | A^FD d/c/ | BcAA | [1 G2 z G :| [2 G2 z B
w:-------------- Now - Each
w:la la la la la la la, Fa la la, Fa la la la. 2.The la. 2.And
w:-------------- Fie - 3.Say
|:Add^c | d2 z A | ccBB | A2 z d/c/ |
w:with his bon-ny lass, up-on the green-y grass.
w:to the bag-pipes' sound, the nymphs tread out their ground. Fa la
w:dain-ty Nymphs and speak, shall we play bar-ley break?
BG d2 | D/E/^F/G/A/B/ c | B>c BA |[1 G2 z B:|
w:-------------- 1.Each
w:la la la, fa la la la la la la, fa la la la. 2.And la
w:-------------- 3.Say
[2 G2 z |]
V:2
z2 z D |: EGG^F | G2 GG | G>^F GG | ^F2 F =F/ F/ |
E>^F GG | ^F D/ E/ F F/ F/ | GGG ^F | G2 z D :| G2 z D |:
FA A>G | ^F2 z =F | EEEE | E2 A/ G/ ^F |
D G2 D/ E/ | ^F/ G/ A z E/ F/ | GGG ^F | G2 z D :| G2 z |]
V:3
K:C treble-8 % take out the treble-8 for compatibility with abc 1.6 standard
z2 z B |: cccc | d2 dd | d>d dG | d2 d d/ d/ |
Acde | A3 d/ d/ | d e d>c | B2 z B :| B2 z G |:
Afee | d2 z F | GABB | ^c =c/ B/ AA |
G>A BB | A A/ G/ ^F E | DG d>c | B2 z G :| B2 z |]

To convert the code above to sheet music, or listen to the tunes, copy the code for a single song, then paste it here and [submit].

Beltane Fire

When I last visited the Reverend Alleyn, I got the vaguest hint of a suspicion that there was more to the picture than I was seeing, and since my curiosity got the better of me I have gone back for a second look. I couldn't shake the feeling that Doctor Alleyn was perhaps unduly concerned with ensuring the security of his job as the vicar of the village of Bray in Berkshire, England, rather than the spiritual welfare of his charges. I admit that I should not have made a trip like this on my own, and in hindsight, I realize it was a mistake. There was nobody to back me up, to see what I saw, or failed to see.

I chose the persona of a travelling tinker, somebody whose unexpected appearance in the village would be unlikely to be questioned, somebody who could engage more or less anybody in conversation. During the first couple of days I mended kettles and cauldrons for David Boteler's wife who complained that her husband, the blacksmith, was too busy to mend his own family's pots (the shoemaker's children go unshod?), and Peter Cooper, the village reeve, whose wife Marjory proved to be something of a gossip. It was Marjory who showed me the first step on the trail that would lead me to the Beltane Hearth on the night of Saint Walpurga's feast.

To be honest, I had never heard of Saint Walpurga before, but of course, the Reverend Alleyn was good enough to enlighten me when I visited to offer my services. Born in Wessex, in the 8th century, she later helped to establish at least one German convent and is credited with powers of healing and fertility. While the Reverend has a couple of pots that need my attention, he regrets that he is unable to recompense me for my labours, which is fine by me, since I am happy to accept payment in the form of his intercession for my unsavoury soul.

It is one thing to know that the old religions persisted for a long time alongside the new, but it is quite another to see them, self-evident. It was the last day of April, the evening of my third day in the village, camped on the edge of a small coppice, when Peter Cooper, and another villager whom I didn't recognize, brought a couple of cartloads of kindling wood and faggots and stacked them in the meadow. As dusk turned to night I heard voices, as well as the bleating of sheep and squealing pigs, and kicked out my campfire moments before the leaders of the procession entered the meadow, carrying blazing torches as they drove the animals forward.

I'm not one hundred percent sure what happened after that, I think there may have been more than firewood in that fire, but I do remember the animals being driven towards the fire. The noise will stay with me for a long time. And figures, dancing naked. It's difficult to be certain, I'd drunk a pint and a half of cider earlier.

The sparks drifting from the fire put me in mind of fairies, but I didn't see any tiny flying people. And I was slightly relieved to note as I was packing the next morning, that there was no evidence of any of the animals having been eaten during the festivities.

However, I do have a memory of an old woman, squatting naked in the firelight, and something else... something very masculine! I don't think I'll ever be able to watch children dancing around a maypole again without thinking very adult thoughts!

I'm ashamed to say that I didn't make the connection until I got back here, but thinking about the old woman tripped another memory; a crude carving, high up on the roof beams of St. Michael's church, a female figure, in that same posture. It seems the figure is well-known to historical anthropologists as Sheila-na-gig.

The next morning I packed up and left as the dawn chorus started to settle down. I'm not used to drinking much and was still feeling the effects slightly, but I did manage to note that the fire in the meadow had been raked down and the grass showed plenty of bruising from a multitude of feet, so I know that at least some part of what I saw the night before really happened.

Another thing I found out after getting back here is that Beltane night is one of the two times in the year when, according to ancient Celtic belief, the boundaries between the physical world and the spiritual world are at their most easily passed. It was an interesting experience, and I have at least come back with an appropriate song from the time, but I have more questions than answers at this point.

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