Rush Hours
I watched a film called “Rush” a while ago. It tells the story of the rivalry between James Hunt and Niki Lauda. Since I am not a petrol head I did not really know the story. I found it fascinating, and an excellent film. But we have a different kind of “Rush” round here. Each year a local village holds what is called the Rush Cart Festival. It is a peculiar affair which lasts over the weekend. I was tweeting about this, and an American friend of mine asked: what on earth is a Rush Cart? It is a good question. My knowledge of matters agricultural is fairly basic, but from what I understand a Rush Cart is an old-fashioned hay-wain, piled high with a sort of beehive of reeds or rushes, about ten feet high. I am told the whole affair weighs about two tons.
On the Saturday morning of the Festival weekend the Rush Cart arrives in the village to a starting point in what passes for the village square in front of The Commercial Pub. It is drawn by teams of local men from I believe the Saddleworth Morris Dancers wearing the traditional garb of hats decorated with flowers, white shirts and gaudy red and white waistcoats, black pantaloons and white stockings with heavy clogs. The outfits are usually garlanded with bells. A band of drums, fiddles accordions and pipes accompanies the procession. At the allotted time the drums strike up, the band joins in and procession moves off. The Rush Cart is then hauled around to other local hamlets. This is no easy feat on the often steep and winding roads of the low Pennines. As the Cart is paraded through each hamlet the band plays and the Morris Men in their weird and colourful garb raise a sort of triumphal salute with staves and the drums thump a marching beat and the fiddles, accordions and pipes play a marching tune. This is hard to explain but a picture paints a thousand words. Therefore, here is a link to the Saddleworth Morris Dancers doing an opening dance for the Festival before processing the Rush Cart itself…
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6UIr39fuTDs
And here is a link to a video of the Rush Cart entering the local hamlet or village of Dobcross, taken from the excellent pub (which I can recommend under its new owners) The Swan…
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nD3lFFOcYXc
The Festival is held in the environs of a local Church, a dark, towering, Bronte-esque affair, and the 
neighbouring pub, the aptly named Church Inn. There is as small stream that runs down past the Church, and I remember courting with a girl there back in the day, and she still has a place in my heart, or what’s left of it. I climbed the road slowly, because it really is steep. Soon after about 10 minutes or so I began to hear the faint sounds of the Festival; the heavy, rhythmic “boom boom boom” of a heavy bass drum, chanting and the crash of wooden clogs stamping in time, and some chanting and fiddles playing. From time to time these would reach a crescendo and applause and cheers broke out. It still took me another ten or so minutes to reach the site.
Upon arrival, I was greeted by my first site of Morris Men. I believe teams compete, but I do not know 
the ins and outs of the competition. Generally, people were doing that very English thing, milling about in a polite way. Morris Dancers mixed in amongst them, either having finished (in which case they tended to be drinking beer) or waiting their own turn to dance (in which case they tended to be drinking beer). The pub was doing a roaring trade. The local Bobby had a garland of flowers around his helmet and the Local PSO had a peacock feather stuck on her hat. I am told it is the Notting Hill Carnival this weekend. I have never visited it, nor will I ever do so. It looks like Notting Hell to me. I would rather stick a fork in my eye than attend it, which by the way appears to be just the sort of thing that happens to people who do. Ditto “Glasto”. I have often thought that pictures I used to see of the police “getting on down” and joining in with the festivities in Notting Hill looked forced and driven by political correctness while the SPG waited for it all to kick off in their transits round the corner. These just looked at ease.
All the usual accoutrements of a British (or English?) day out were there. The beer in plastic glasses, two
ice cream vans (one manned so to speak by a startling pretty girl who, of course, caught my eye), the local WI, or at any rate a local village society, selling tea and home-made cakes and sandwiches and pie and mushy peas, a stall selling burgers and chips, and a little row of port-a-loos. And, of course, there were the dancers themselves, in their traditional and often weird costumes. My favourites are always the ones I call “The Crows”, dressed largely in black with blackened faces too, which I am sure someone in London will soon try to ban; but it does not appear to me to have racist connotations. It seems to me that the idea is to imitate a crow, and in the case of other groups such as the “Bacup Nutters”, represent the days when people were filthy black from working in a pit or a foundry. Here indeed we have the eponymous Bacup Nutters, doing a dance in front of the pub. This is clearly illegal in my view, because the competition dancing takes place further up by the Church itself and in my view could have interfered with drinking at the Church Inn…
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rz_jbcAwpJI
How then was I to explain this event and the weird dancing to my American friend? What does it all mean? The history of rush festivals in some form or other certainly goes back to the Middle Ages. I am not an expert. The rushes seem to have had some significance for making the floors of churches more welcoming, acting like a carpet, or something like that. Perhaps there were ceremonies to have an annual clear out and refreshing. The history of Rush Carts themselves is more uncertain. They seem to be local to North West of England and to have grown up as part of, or perhaps to have been heavily influenced by, the Industrial Revolution – a strange irony given the ancient and very rural essence of themes. They then appear to have died out, only to have been revived back in the 70’s. The Festival in question was revived in 1975, and has grown in popularity since. I suppose one can say therefore that it is that oxymoron, a new tradition, with an imaging of days past that never really were. I am not sure that is fair. I like to think I am sensitive to atmospheres and to some things that are not obvious to other people. I often get very strong impressions of the atmospheres of places, whether towns or on a smaller scale. To my sensitivities there is something about the Rush Cart Festival which feels old, and I do mean very old. There is some echo of long gone days here. That Master of Ceremonies chap dressed as a woman – isn’t that a Roman thing, or am I perhaps reading too much into it? Modern historians have tended to deride the idea that these Festivals have pagan roots. I am by no means so sure. There is something somehow subtly subversive about the whole thing. Our landlord Petunia mentioned to me that the idea of the Festival reminded him of the classic Dr. Who story ‘The Daemons’ – one of my favourites ever, as it happens. Well, it does me too.
Be that as it may, there is in my view an important point which I would make to my American friend. In a sense, the whole thing is inexplicable. It is silly, it involves middle-aged men, beer, bellies and flowers and cakes. It is good-natured, semi orderly and yet amateurish and entirely pointless, and thus sums up a part of what cannot be explained: Englishness.
I moved amongst the crowd, taking my photographs as mementoes, stopping for tea and cake (I am strictly teetotal when driving). Although I move in this community I am not really part of it. I have no close friends here. And yet I can feel at home with the spirit, the history, the mood. This is part of my heritage. In truth, although I enjoyed the day my mind was somewhere else, or rather on someone else. But by three of the clock I had returned to the Monk Mobile, a stately old Volvo estate with 160,000 miles on the clock that goes by the name of Tilly. As we pottered the short drive home a further dollop of England occurred – the threatened storm erupted in the form of a monumental downpour of rain so heavy it was hard to see even with the wipers going full tilt. I don’t know what effect it would have had at the Festival. But it will all happen again next year. But, I wonder, for how long?
Gildas The Monk
TRACK CAPTAIN RACCOON DAY 2: http://jst.org.uk/track-our-ships/
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August 31, 2015 at 9:51 am -
Completely barking, stark-staring bonkers – and long may this eccentricity continue, it makes us what we are.
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August 31, 2015 at 10:01 am -
Excellent stuff, Gildas! ‘Heritage’, in all it’s many forms, is a very important part of community cohesiveness and rootedness. Especially if it involves eating, temporarily diverting local traffic, and drinking beer.
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August 31, 2015 at 10:48 am -
This has just reminded me the Abbots Bromley Horn Dance is taking place next Monday. I’ve never seen it but a friend goes every year – he’s a folklorist and beer aficionado, so he attends as many of these events as he can. It’s a genuinely old festival, going back to the 17thC or earlier and the sight of a group of costumed men bearing huge antlers spending the day solemnly dancing through the streets is undeniably pagan.
There’s a description of it here; the writer puts his finger on the reason why these customs survive and thrive:
“Like most folk customs, the Horn Dance is at heart a celebration of local pride, and in these unofficial dances you can literally see the community being woven together. And there’s an implicit two fingers to the commuters and incomers who’ve flooded the village (pushing some of the dancers out), forced to watch from their SUVs while the antlers reclaim the streets. “ -
August 31, 2015 at 12:02 pm -
Modern historians have tended to deride the idea that these Festivals have pagan roots
Every April our local Primary School has the kiddies outside dancing around what looks suspiciously like a very Un-health& Safety scaffolding pole (what if one of the little dears holding it upright with bare hands should be stricken by some rare form metal toxicity?) atopped with a crown of flowers.The Bestes Frau In The World used to like watching the little boys and girls skipping around the May Pole to the teacher’s MP3 of whatever ‘Ferret Down Strides’ traditional Irish music ‘ apracticin’ for May Day (I assume the lyrics to traditional Norfolk songs earn them a place on the Index, zoophilia not yet being a ‘valid’ lifestyle choice ) …until I told her that originally the pole was a phallic symbol and she could guess what the white ribbons emerging from it’s crown represented …and why only maidens used to dance in those long gorn UnPc days of yore.
She now refers to it by it’s correct name of ‘Schwanztanz’ (‘dick dance’).
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August 31, 2015 at 1:10 pm -
I see our landlord Pertunia has added is own inimitable contribution to my photographic record of the day! I don’t recall seeing the Doctor or his companion Jo (Sarah Jane was alsways the one for me. Speaking of said episode it featured amongst other matters as I recall a demon ((well, a bloke in a rubber suit, which is ambiguous enough), ritual devil worship under the command of The Master (Roger Delgado, brilinat and pagan fertility rites.
Now try and get away with that on a Saturday tea time in the present climate!
Meanwhile, there was always The Wicker Man…
Right. Time to spy on – no O mean check the progress of – La Raccoon…. -
August 31, 2015 at 1:19 pm -
Could the Rush Festival, which you say includes a progression through nearby hamlets, be a version of the age-old practice of “beating the bounds”? In the Middle Ages, when few people were literate and detailed maps did not exist, that ceremony was a way of passing on local knowledge to the youngsters. More importantly, if that knowledge and the rights pertaining thereto were not regularly reinforced, a local landowner could abrogate the commoners’ privileges.
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August 31, 2015 at 11:45 pm -
Not being able to check Wiki whilst responding, but I seem to recall beating the bounds was carried out on Rogation Sunday; the rushes was to cover the church floor at a time when most burials were in the church so could cause a slight odour and the rushes would mask this. From memory, so could be well wrong.
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September 1, 2015 at 12:18 am -
From Wiki The rushcart ceremony, derives from Rogationtide. Parishioners would process around the parish once a year, bearing rushes. They would end up at the parish church and place the rushes on the floor of the church, to replace worn-out rushes. In modern times the ceremony is practised only in parts of northern England including Lancashire and Cumbria among others.
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August 31, 2015 at 5:06 pm -
Pedantry to the fore – Morris teams are known as ‘sides’ and the real traditionalists will not countenance Women sides as it is a male fertility tradition.
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August 31, 2015 at 8:19 pm -
There’s actually a team known as the ‘Loose women‘.
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August 31, 2015 at 7:06 pm -
“my first site of Morris Men”. Is this an attempt at a new collective noun Gildas? A site of Morris men?
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August 31, 2015 at 7:37 pm -
That would be a weird war movie – Morris Men vs Orange men.
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August 31, 2015 at 8:01 pm -
OMG! Aliens! Can Morris men save the planet? I can see it all now, a standoff between Neurostunners, Darksabers, the Farce and semi retired accountants with their bells, sticks, hankies and the possibly illegal Triple Arkright.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Cloggies
I’ll get me coat…….
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August 31, 2015 at 8:46 pm -
I remember Bill Tidy’s ‘The Fosdyke Saga’ in the Daily Mirror, but that one’s new to me.
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September 1, 2015 at 1:49 am -
‘The Cloggies’? Private Eye.
Blame my older sibling for leaving his collection at home when he went to University. Oh! The corruption of a young and vulnerable mind…… (Snarf)
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August 31, 2015 at 8:04 pm -
Wonderfully eccentric, the dances meanings lost in time, though some speculate the dances may have druidic origins.
Nevertheless, colourful, fun, male-centric and a free spectacle unencumbered by “organization” and “modern policing” a complete contrast to modern gay parades where the police seem to think they need to take a lead role and everybody will enjoy the parade by edict. May the various Morris celebrations last for generations yet.
And since Gildas added an addendum related to the landladies adventure, may I suggest this site that gives rather more detail (if you play around inside it) including a tracking function and more frequent updates of position. Currently they are reported as under way by sail, destination Schevingen.
http://www.marinetraffic.com/en/ais/home/shipid:183068/zoom:10
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August 31, 2015 at 8:32 pm -
the dances meanings lost in time, though some speculate the dances may have druidic origins.
By ‘lost in time’ you mean ‘alcoholic cider fuelled haze’? And there should be a ‘Godwin’s Law’ regarding the druids/Templars/Essenes. I doubt anyone can discern the origins of Morrising but I’ll bet a pigs bladder to a pint of Ol Amber Enema that there was nay a sickle nor mistletoe bunch involved. Personal best, cynical, guess is that the whole hanky wavingness was a lampoon, a parody, of the ‘toffs’ of the day, them lords and ladies what incorporated silk hanky waving in their elaborate dances/mating rituals in the days when the cost of a silk handkerchief could have kept a family of inbred Norfolk peasants in gruel for a year ….’call it macaroni’ if you like.
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August 31, 2015 at 8:51 pm -
Never thought of it that way before, BD, but you may be right with the lampoon idea.
Perhaps it was just the brown-nosing media of yesteryear (nothing changes) which created the myth of some imaginary rustic fertility ritual so that the masses didn’t work out that their betters were having the piss taken out of them by their own serfs and lackeys so publicly and with impunity.
Any similarly sideways thoughts on ‘Trooping The Colour’ ?-
August 31, 2015 at 9:33 pm -
Don\t know anything about Trooping The Colour (the only ‘colours’ we know round this parts are painted on the back of the Pheasant Pluckers MC ‘s leather jackets). But substitute the sticks and pig organs for swords and bells for garters etc and a lot of Morris dances would parody the sort of dancing when ruff size was a serious issue…particularly nuptial dances. Most people have seen a couple emerging from the Holy Church into the Holy State of Matrimony through an archway of brother officer’s swords or truncheons -and I dare say enough peasants were on the wrong end of the Reeves staff or the Beadles purely symbolic heavy baton.
But I went to school where the last ‘cunnin’ man of the village was still within the living memory of his great grandchildren so I tend to get a little bee+bonnet as soon as someone links ancient village rites and practices with the Druids. Mind you it was only much later I realised why the local farmers burnt their rubbish on a certain night of the year-which may really go back to the Druids (if they ever actually existed outside the imagination of some french pencil fondler…je suis Getafix.)
One day I may submit a post to this blog entitled “The Dwarf & The Toddymen” but it would no doubt be censored by The Impretunia.
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August 31, 2015 at 8:56 pm -
Well dwarf, we both know that some hapless Norfolk folk were sentenced to death, later commuted to transportion to Australia for life , for the grievous sin of stealing kerchieves. So somehow I doubt the peasants were re-enacting a parody with such expensive items. Nevertheless your speculation has as much validity as others.
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August 31, 2015 at 9:38 pm -
Not with silk nose wipes of course but coarse peasantly rag. Actually my Norfolk ancestors would have felt wrapping one’s snot in silk like a precious jewel was rather unhygienic compared to blowing it into one’s hand and wiping said hand on the nearest skirt.
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August 31, 2015 at 10:00 pm -
At least there are no reports of scurvy yet!
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August 31, 2015 at 10:07 pm -
I would thank you Sir, not to refer to our esteemed Landlady so…although she has indeed been known to reopen old wounds and cause bleeding in the mouth in some…
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September 1, 2015 at 3:28 am -
We’ve got Soulcaking round here – it’s all revived stuff, but the feel is very old.
Same with the Nutters, there’s something very far back about that, like watching a crow fly backwards.But you don’t have to look for eccentricities to see Pagan / Heathen persistences. The regular Harvest Festival looks suspiciously like marrow worship, whatever connotations that might have, or otherwise a sacrifice. And leaving out a drink and mince pies for Santa is Pagan Sacrifice.
Again, gothic architecture looks to me based on a kind of Christmas tree bristle quality, and churches built on Classical designs are using a straight lift from Pagan times.
So for me it is our Ground every day even if many don’t know it, in us.
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September 1, 2015 at 9:01 am -
Can somebody remind me which ship Captain Raccoon is sailing in?
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September 1, 2015 at 9:14 am -
The Lord Nelson
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