Out on the old Midlands to Oxford turnpike.
Amongst the Arcadian landmarks. Damp with dew.
Awaiting the appearance of the ragman fool.
Awaiting the song of the fiddle and the squeezebox.
I grew up around this stuff. It’s in my veins.
Much like the locally-brewed Hook Norton ale.
The ruggles of latten-bells about the shins.
The knotted hankies flapping in the morning breeze.
The rosettes and the ribbons and the double-baldrics.
Part of my heritage. Part of my legacy. Part of my very folklore.
I know it doesn’t have the exotic allure of Pamplona’s
Running of the Bulls festival, or the perceived indigenous
cultural significance of a Cheyenne Nation sundance ceremony,
but like it or not, it’s ours. It’s tradition.
As distinctly English as cricket or cream tea.
Oh this Island of Majesty. Oh this precious gemstone set on Silver Seas.
Oh this demi-paradise. Oh this new Eden.
Oh this happy breed of dancing men.
Oh this realm of The Morris.
The Adderbury Village Morris Men
'The Life Of A Fool' 3-minute documentary
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