Two Weeks on the English Canals:day 9

Day 9
Sunday
July 28, 2002

To the festival center by taxi this morning in time for the Shellback Chorus at       10: 00. This act never got tiresome.
     After a rousing bout of maritime music, we decided to take a break from the Festival. We hopped aboard the shuttle bus, which delivered us downtown, where we disembarked at The Collegiate Church of St. Mary. This historic church dates back to the twelfth century. The crypt, at the bottom of church, dates back to 1123.
     Sara stayed on the main floor of the church, preferring to avoid that which she assumed would be dank and dusty, so I ventured downward alone. I was not disappointed.    The stairs down were difficult and rough. A sharp right turn at the bottom of the stairs brought me into an ancient existence.
    Magnificent arches and intricate stonework abounded. The edges and the hues of the stonework were softened, weathered not so much by any external force, but by the simple passage of centuries. Dim electric lights glowed in hidden niches near the ceiling and helped make the total effect of the crypt lighting stereotypically eerie.
     On the floor, smooth slabs of marble interrupted the brick flooring, each slab bearing a Latin inscription identifying which of the great Earls of Warwick or their family member's bones and dust lay below. At one end of the crypt, a small window admitted a beam of light, proclaiming that at least a small part of this lower level peeked above ground.
     There were a few simple wooden chairs and tables placed about. One of the tables served as an adequate camera platform for a long exposure in the dim light. After taking the picture, I just sat in the chair, breathing the air, looking at the ancient walls, and feeling the presence of nine centuries.

     After a few minutes, I reluctantly rose and shuffled toward the entrance and the steep stairs. As I approached the top, I could hear the music again. Since we had arrived, there had been music; medieval, soft and ethereal, one lonely human voice accompanied by a soft organ; the echoes floating throughout the large church. I walked across the church to the entrance of another part of this ancient house of worship. What I saw there was a perfect visual companion to the haunting melody, for I stood before The Beauchamp Chantry. This church within a church is said to be the finest medieval chapel in England. Within the elaborate chapel, two rectangular structures rose out of the ground. Each was about seven by four feet in dimension, remarkably ornate; intricately painted and decorated around the sides with three-dimensional gold figurines.   Atop each of these adorned boxes, lay a life-size gilded statue of the deceased inhabitant. This was the 14th century tomb of the Earl of Warwick Thomas Beauchamp and his wife, Catherine.
     The music became louder now, flowing out of a large array of organ pipes mounted majestically above the doors at the rear of the church. Not only could I hear the rumbling tones, but also I could feel them hit my body, vibrations of the air pushing out of the giant pipes.
     As we left the church, I still tingled from the effects of the powerful music, however I was snapped out of my reverie by the music and street dancing unfolding before me.   Irish dancers tapped and whirled. Four musicians: a fiddler, a banjo plunker, guitar player, and an acoustic bass player accompanied them. It was easy to hear how our own American bluegrass styles and homespun mountain melodies derived their roots from much the same music as I was hearing now. None of the varied dancers we saw that day danced to recorded music. All the music was live.
     Next came the Plum Jerkum Morris group, one of several groups of Morris Dancers. Morris Dancing is one of the characteristic folk dancing traditions of England. Its precise origins are lost in the mists of time, supposedly derived from fertility rites and celebrations at sowing and harvest. This dancing is always celebratory and often raucous, traditionally deriving much of its energy from the consumption of fermented beverages.
    The name "Plum Jerkum" is taken from a plum-based cider, which also seems to inspire the dancers. If the cider comes anywhere close to embodying the energy and merriment of this group, it is a fine, fine drink. Around and around the dancers went, hopping and skipping with the music, waving large sticks, or more accurately, clubs. Then they danced in place and ritualistically sparred with their clubs, all the time to a German style beer band beat.

      After a couple of hours of this, we caught the shuttle back to the festival grounds in time for Tom Lewis' afternoon performance followed by (would you believe) another session with the Shellback Chorus!
     We arrived back at the moorage just as night was falling. As we approached our boats, we heard singing. Mac was sitting with a guitar, outside, on the deck at the bow of their boat. Her teenagers, daughter Molly and son Stuart, were with her as was Leslie and her fiddle. Not being ones to pass up a song circle of any kind, we settled ourselves and joined in.
     It was a beautiful evening. balmy but not humid, a light breeze tickling the leaves in the trees. As the dusk descended, we sat there and sang and sang.

Freedom's just another word for nothing' left to lose:
Nothin' ain't worth nothin' but it's free.
Feeling good was easy, Lord, when Bobby sang the blues.
Feeling good was good enough for me;
Good enough for me and Bobby McGee.