Wassail Away

          In an old Steinbeck story, set in California around 1930, the protagonist adds a pinch of celery salt to the glass of beer he is served in a bar. Intrigued by this, I dug around t’internet and discovered that it has long been known that adding salt to poor quality beer makes it more palatable. Further intrigued, I went to the trouble of buying some celery salt and adding it to bottle of supermarket lager left over from a party. The result of my test was inconclusive – but that’s probably because I don’t much care for lager anyway, salted or otherwise. So, I am rid of the lager, but the salt remains, a useful addition to the cruet, as it goes especially well with boiled eggs (hard or soft).

          Actually, I prefer cider to beer and have become quite the afficionado when it comes to the apple varieties used, the style of the drink and the provenance of the producers. You could say I’m picky, but that would be an understatement. For me, it has to be dry, still, without additives and made in England with native apples. The thing is, when I taste cider, I taste also the history of England. It’s a visceral thing, hard to explain. I’ll have a go anyway.

          Last Sunday, I went wassailing around a small orchard that has recently been established on the Hoe (Plymouth’s elevated park that overlooks the city to the north and the sea to the south and from which sir Francis Drake calmly observed the approaching Spanish Armada while he finished a game of bowls with his mates). I joined a motley crew of traditionalists in the act of dispensing goodwill to the trees in the hope that they will respond with an abundant harvest. There is a special song to kick off proceedings but, after that, the ceremony loosens up and we traipse around the trees, banging pots and pans or playing folk instruments and offering libations of cider lees to the roots. It’s pagan, ancient, light-hearted and uniquely silly: the essence of old England as popularly portrayed. I don’t believe wassailing has any effect on harvests, but I do believe that the perpetuation of the joyfully expressive tradition makes the cider taste better in the bar afterwards.

          And so it did. The after-party took place in the bowling club pavilion (which is said to stand roughly where Sir Francis would have been playing in 1588), where we were treated to sea shanties, morris dancing and refreshments, including, of course, cider most pure (and some which was adulterated with spices and heated up – mulled, they calls it. I suspect it’s just another way of making a poor beverage palatable, like the trick with salt). Sea shanties are a bit like the blues in that, when sung with gusto, they can be moving but, musically the format is limited, so one’s attention wanders after about fifteen minutes. However, a couple of pints of cider soon has you singing along.

           Morris dancing, likewise, can arouse more curiosity than excitement, but this particular side* had a narrator who explained the stories behind the dance moves, clarifying the interpretive choreography. It became a bit fuzzy after the second pint but, by then, it was all just jolly japes anyway and I was feeling inclined to join in, regardless of the fact that the dancers were wielding heavy sticks. Sensibly, I refrained and gave thanks, instead, to those who actively perpetuate the folk traditions. Progress may be the inevitable fate of us humans, but the past is the start of our story.

          Two days later, I was driving along an old road that wound through the Devon countryside, skirting ancient landholdings and passing within inches of the thatched buildings of Norman hamlets. There were moments when old England surged through me, like the remains of a dream.

*Morris dance troupes are called ‘sides’.