Sitting here at my desk in the middle
of October, listening to the wind and rain outside, I reflect and ponder upon
the autumn and the coming winter. It cannot be denied that with the coming of
Michaelmas at the end of September, autumn has made itself felt. The nights are
dark and that darkness comes earlier. The mornings are colder and the weather
is wetter.
It is true however, that here in
my part of England, we have had an excellent summer. So amazingly warm and
long, that eventually we started to complain. We English like to complain about
the weather, it is tradition as ingrained as Morris dancing but it has been an
unusually dry summer. The autumn however, has been so far and appears very likely
to remain, damp.
September began with a very
enjoyable trip to Abbots Bromley for the Horn Dance and that day was a dry one.
The church was as always open to visitors and the yew at the lych-gate caught
my attention. The needles were beginning to turn on parts of the tree but the
berries were bright, striking in their abundance. Poignant, timely, meaningful.
Towards the end of September our
Hearth of the Turning Wheel picnic; planned for the weekend of the Autumn
Equinox, was cancelled due to the heavy rain and the issuing of a severe
weather warning. This was the second picnic of the year that had to be
cancelled but this time, we did not reschedule.
This meant that on the eve of the
equinox (the 22nd), we held no picnic and moved our ritual from an
outdoor venue to the house. Despite this wonderful summer the actual
organisation of Hearth events has been disrupted by poor weather conditions. We
have been unlucky but we hope next year will be more fortunate.
On a more personal note and
representing something of my own harvest, the fruit of my own labour. I had the
pleasure of seeing my name in print once more, with a four page article in
Greenmantle magazine. No matter how many times one is published, the novelty,
the simple excitement and that warm sense of achievement, does not fade.
I awoke on the equinox (Sunday 23rd)
to discover a day that was bright, warm and beyond comfortable. I decided to
visit Elvaston Castle for the afternoon. I had chosen the wrong day for the
picnic but I was able to salvage something of the equinox thanks to this
glorious day. Hawthorne berries were like those of the yew earlier in the
month, bright and abundant in the hedgerows nearby. The trees were in an array
of colours and autumn was indeed in the air.
The woodland festival was remarkably
large, with a variety of craft stalls and demonstrations spread across the
parkland. This provided an ideal excuse if one was needed, to explore the public
walkways. The Green Man was present with stories and music. Decked out in
plants found locally, he looked more than at home. He looked comfortable and perfectly
suited to the themes of the festival.
Amongst the demonstrations were
those focused on woodland cooking and the produce of this our land. Perhaps
some of the public were surprised to see a seasonal harvest, which included
animal life and not just the local fruits. The Autumn Equinox holds within it a
taste of death, to live something must die and with the coming of Michaelmas,
the year itself is dying. We today in our safe and civilised homes, are protected
from the bloody and often dirty business of survival. Whether meat or
vegetable, we are isolated from nature.
After exploring the Woodland
Festival and on wondering into the heart of the park, I was delighted to
discover that both church and tower where open. I was at first reticent with
regard climbing one hundred and eight steps to the top of the tower. I changed
my mind though, it has been a long time since I last climbed that tower but the
opportunity was too much to turn away from.
The views of the park, the festival
and the surrounding countryside, still green for the most part, made the climb
worthwhile. The descent was however, painful. Ye Gods, my knees. I am barely over
fifty but that descent has made me feel old. The church itself is something of
an undiscovered gem, a quite charming building with a history of joy and violence.
During the Civil War the early post
Reformation monuments were vandalised, together with what little stained glass
had survived the Reformation itself. The iconoclasm of the Puritans was able to
touch even this corner of Derbyshire but worse took place here than the smashing
of the Stanhope tomb. The Parliamentarian soldiers responsible for the internal
damage of the church, murdered several locals including staff from the manor
house. The musket holes where these individuals were stood, are still visible
today on the exterior of the north wall.
As one would expect, there is an array
of monuments to the local autocratic family, including sadly, a child. The later
monuments are of a high quality and include some beautiful depictions. These are
outstanding and perhaps surprising finds that illustrate how a small country
church can benefit from patronage.
My final call of the day was the
Viking Encampment, a well organised and informative area created by the Vikings
of Middle England. Here I enjoyed a brief wonder through the camp, chatting
with the villagers and admiring the detail on display. I spent a few moments
chatting in absolute fascination with a man who had a facsimile Saxon Leech
Book on display. Beautifully created in leather, the text was in both Old
English and modern for comparison.
Reflecting now on that day with
the Autumn Equinox and Michaelmas well behind us. I observe that many of us will
now turn our minds to the approach of the Hallowtide. There is much confusion
within the secular world regards the festivals, one being a harvest of produce
and the other perhaps a harvest of souls. Hallowtide is often perceived as a
festival that celebrates death but this is incorrect.
Hallowtide is a festival of
remembrance, a festival of the dead but not of death. It is a time to honour
our ancestors both known and unknown (Griffith 2011). If there is a ‘death’
festival then it is as I imply, the Autumn Equinox (see also White and Talboys
2004). Is it no more than a coincidence that Remembrance Day falls on November
the eleventh? A date that under the old Julian calendar would have been Old All
Hallows (Farrar J. Farrar S. 1981). Surely then, there is no better day to
remember the dead?
Went the day well?
We died and never knew.
But, well or ill,
Freedom, we died for you.
When you go home,
Tell them of us and say;
‘For your tomorrow,
We gave our today.’
John Maxwell Edmonds
From harvest to remembrance time
marches on. The light fades, the darkness increases and now we look ahead towards
the winter. In the heat of summer is metal forged and in the ice of winter, an
edge is keenly wrought (Griffith 2018).
Greenmantle – a Pagan Journal.
https://www.facebook.com/groups/132100270133512/
The Vikings of Middle England.
