“Wassail!” went the cry and flaming torches and cups of cider were held aloft.
Earlier in the afternoon, just before dusk, a large crowd of all ages gathered outside Penkhull Village Hall. Torches were lit, and the Penkhull Brass band, Penkhull Mystery Singers and the Domesday Morris dancers had emerged to much anticipation.
Wassailing is a tradition and ceremony involving the blessing of orchards to ensure a good harvest and health for the forthcoming year. Another version sees revellers go from house to house singing and spreading seasonal cheer in exchange for food and drink; believed to be the origins of carol singing at Christmas. Penkhull Wassail combine the two by performing at a local apple tree before touring the pubs in the area.
For a community recognised in the Domesday Book commissioned by William the Conqueror in the 11th Century, you would be forgiven for thinking that this has been a regular occurrence for centuries. 2020 marks only the 6th Penkhull Wassail and the second which I have attended and photographed. Judging by the numbers and enthusiasm shown by the participants and onlookers, it has become firmly established in the social calendar.
Following the bright lights and festivities of Christmas and the New Year, January can be a long dark month. An event bringing people together to celebrate the forthcoming Spring season, mixing music and dancing, and a parade which takes in all the local pubs before returning to the village hall for hot food, more cider and merriment, is very welcome.
Carefully marshalled by volunteers in high visibility vests everyone makes their way along Trent Valley Road. The procession shuffles into a large walled back garden where sits our apple tree. Hot mulled cider is handed around, its scent mingles with torch smoke in the cold night air.
“The Squire” leads the ceremony, delivering speeches and the skeletal form of the tree is blessed. Cider is poured around its base and children hang pieces of toasted bread on the branches to “feed” it. I’m not sure how the tree feels about this but no doubt the local bird population will be grateful. All of this is punctuated by shouts of “Wassail!” and swigs of cider.
Domesday Morris start the first of many dances. Their rustic attire and painted faces give them a distinctly pagan appearance. No pristine whites, jingling bells and waving colourful handkerchiefs which Morris dancing brings to mind to the uninitiated. They have blackened faces, hold wooden staffs, and their green and brown hued clothing and costumes make them look as though they have emerged from a forest; something very appropriate given the occasion. Hats decorated with traditional pheasant plumes, greenery and garlands are mingled with battery powered fairy lights to bring the Anglo-Saxon origins into the 21st Century. It’s also good for keeping track of the dancers in the dark!
Speaking of which, the dancing is full of energy and when the time in the choreography comes for dance partners to strike each others sticks it is done so with plenty of force and gusto, generating a loud “crack”! Whoops, cheers and even growls are enough to banish any evil spirits and wake the tree from its winter sleep.
It is a fascinating subject to photograph because of the sense of theatre and occasion combined with history, folklore and everyday life. I am having to be alert and move quickly to gain the best vantage points throughout the evening. Choosing smaller cameras and wider lenses means having to get as close as I can to the action without getting in the way.
And so we move back into the centre of Penkhull where the procession makes its way to the Marquis of Granby pub. The music and dancing continues for the entertainment of drinkers who come outside to watch. Moving on to the second port of call at The Beehive Inn the party takes the opportunity to enjoy some refreshment before launching into music, singing, and dancing from different regions and counties. Something that is repeated outside each pub on a route which finishes at The Greyhound.
It is well and truly dark now and the January night air is very cold, pressing against my cheeks. Wearing fingerless gloves is handy for operating a camera but by this point my fingertips and toes are starting to feel numb. Satisfied that I’ve captured this occasion, the revelry continues as I quietly peel away to walk home via a chip shop for takeaway fish and chips and a much needed hot mug of tea.
Jacob Broadhurst 