Silence and slight melancholy (not unpleasant)

Today is Whitsun (supposedly from White Sunday, owing to the large number of confirmations that traditionally take place on this day). Also known as Pentecost. One of the great feast days of the medieval church (and continuing into the present day).

Sir James Frazer writes extensively about Whitsun, which he interpreted (not without some challenge) as a religious overlay of fertility cults associated with the coming of Spring and the flowering of the May tree (or common hawthorn - Crataegus monogyna).



Above: another village fete. This one was in a large commuter village near the county town. It seemed more commercialised (with sponsors) and organised. The village square had been cordoned off and laid out with craft stalls, charity stalls, tombola stalls etc. In the centre, in front of the pub, was an arena. In a prefabricated box the fete organisers gave announcements and introduced various “acts”.



Above: the village majorettes performed to Mika songs. Their routines were very expert. Inevitably I was reminded of Catherine Tate’s Bunty (but not in a bad way).



Above: there was a display of vintage tractors.



Above: Sir James Frazer allocates a section of The Golden Bough to the Whitsuntide Mummers. Instead of mummers, this fete had performances by the Spirit of ’68 - grey-haired grandads in jeans and waistcoats, singing material from The Rolling Stones, the Small Faces, The Who. Grey-haired grandmas danced arthritically with each other, ignoring the embarrassment and mortification of the younger generations.



Above: this photograph, poor though it is, is important as it shows cultural cross-fertilisation at the very moment of transition. The programme was over-running by about ten minutes, and so the morris dancers came out while the Spirit of ’68 was still playing. Instead of waiting on the sideline, the morris dancers began jiving away to the rock music. If you click on the photograph to enlarge it and look closely you can see them doing this. What exactly is happening here? What would John Harris, Paul Weller, Billy Bragg and all the other recherché 60s purists make of this?



Above: the village pub, behind the main stage, decorated with bunting. It was the heart of the fete. In the past special Whitsun ales would be brewed for the feast day.



Above: Whitsun starts today (Sunday) and goes on for a full week, known as Whitsuntide. There are many traditions throughout the British Isles associated with Whitsuntide, including the famous Whit walks in Manchester. In this county horse races used to be held, the young unmarried men of the villages competing for a “whit bride” who would be their “wife” for a day (obviously this free-love custom was stamped out by the Victorians, who also refined the village “revels” into more sedate “fetes” - an echo of this can be found in Trollope’s Barchester Towers).



Above: one of Philip Larkin’s most famous poems is The Whitsun Weddings (reprinted above in The Guardian). It describes a train journey through a county during which the narrator witnesses “Whitsun Weddings” in the passing towns. They are usually interpreted as conventional wedding parties, but I wonder if Larkin was referring to a folk-memory of the old custom?



Above: the service sheet.

In the evening I drove down onto the plain where the Minster stands in the little market town. The week long May Fair had gone, and the market square seemed oddly empty. The day was still extremely hot, and the air had acquired a still and satiated quality.

The sun created slanting shadows on the greensward daisies as I went into the Minister for Choral Evensong. Faint smell of incense (the Bishop had been present at the morning confirmations). Most people were bunched in the choir stalls, seated under spiky gothic canopies so that they matched the stone saints in the niches of the great reredos (by W. S. Weatherly, completed in 1914), but I joined the sprinkling of worshippers in the nave.

The honey-coloured stone interacted with the evening sunshine so that a honey-hued light was created. There was a sheen on the golden icon given by the former Reader. Silence and slight melancholy (not unpleasant) as the organ played what sounded like Debussy.

The procession entered from a door on the left, went down the side aisle, round the west end and up the nave. Four clergy and a choir of about ten - the Minster has several choirs, and is affiliated to the Royal School of Church Music. At this service only the adult choir was present.

We sang the Pentecostal hymns (From the overshadowing, Of Thy gold and silver wing, Shed on us who to Thee sing, Holy heavenly Love). The choir sang the Magnificat and the Nunc Dimittis (the Nunc Dimittis was especially fine). In his sermon the vicar talked about the tongues of fire and the rushing wind.