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Hey Reader,

“Jingling bastards,” Joe muttered.

I snorted, clapping along as the Morris Dancers jingled around the village square, waving hankies and bowing.

I don’t know why, but Joe’s afraid of Morris Dancers. He says they’re “fundamentally untrustworthy” but can’t explain why.

Our local Morris Dancers practice in our village hall, 200m away from my house. I might join. Partly because I love anything to do with dancing, partly because I love weird little local and traditional customs, and partly because I have an evil plan to become Joe’s jingling sleep paralysis demon.

Imagine waking up to me decked out with garlands and hankies and jingling over his face at 3am! What fun.

When we bought tickets to the local wassail last week, we didn’t realise there’d be Morrissing too. But I’m glad there was, because I’ve now also decided to learn to play the accordion!

But back to wassailing. It’s an annual custom whereby we gather, light flaming torches, and process through the village to the cider apple orchard where we light small bonfires and sing to the trees, to bless the coming year’s harvest and drive out any evil spirits.

Then we toast the trees.

Like, literally toast them.

First we drink cider (or apple juice in my case) which seems a bit sinister to be honest — “hello lovely trees, thank you for your service, let us just drink your blood in front of you, nothing to worry about” — then we tip a little cider into the roots.

And then we take small pieces of toasted bread and stick them on the trees. On a bracket fungus shelf, wedged into a knot or a fork in the branch, scattered at the base of the trunk, or pierced onto a twig.

Finally, we sing a song — the Herefordshire Wassail. Every area has its own specific tradition and song, and ours is a good one.

Call: WASSAIL!

Response: DRINK HALE!

Everyone: sings to the gods of the orchard and also possibly the big man upstairs. It’s a real mashup of pagan and Christian, much like most other festivals in the UK, and I’m very much here for it.

And then we progress back by the light of our flaming torches and everyone gets pissed.

It’s all a bit Midsommar. All it’s missing is a wicker man…

This year, one of my plans is to find and attend as many weird little traditional and/or local festivals/activities/rituals as possible.

I’ve heard about ditch snorkelling and I’m intrigued and horrified.

Do you know of any local rituals, festivals, or traditions I should investigate in or around your area? Please drop me a line and let me know.

Even better?

Go and take part, and write about it yourself.

Because we don’t have to be experts in what we’re writing about. We just have to be curious and find a story to tell.

That’s enough.

And sometimes, you’ll discover a new passion or hobby, like becoming your husband’s jingling sleep paralysis demon.

TTFN,

Vicky 🫡

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