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November 02, 2008
Our sun is sinking from us..
Upon my word we passed a most agreeable Hallowe'en at the Knights' Hall. 'No fine silk or bonnets to be worn' it said on the invitations written in the elegant cursive script of Sir Cum Locution. We arrived shortly after sundown. Drab Eileen and the Grim reaper came along with me on Dick Thresher's wagon. The road is a sea of mud and village flotsam I hoped that Gwen the one eyed widow was taking a ride with Mr Kipling in the Child Catcher's barouche.
We were ushered in to the Great Hall, and bear with me, dear reader, but I could not but feel a smug glow of satisfaction seeing the golden tones of the Round Table radiating mahogany in the candle light.The work with the beeswax has paid off, and no mistake.
We began with a game of apple bobbing in the scullery. Now you will see why bonnets were forbidden though the mob caps we had fashioned to preserve our modesty were quickly drowned and with our hands behind our backs and our heads in the tin bath we were a sight to raise a laugh from all but the glummest. Then with our faces dripping we had to remove the ring from the bowl of flour in our teeth. It seemed that only half of us had teeth and Sir Lee de Meanour was not amused at this sport, nor at our titters of amusement when he rose from the plate, his face white enough to frighten the Archdeacon and no mistake.No one can accuse us of not being edgy and contemporary in this village.
So now to All Souls day and a precious gleaming of sunshine as the leaves tumble. The healer in Oat Cottage is stacking a log pile and still offering cabbage leaf healing to the passers by. Mrs Spittle had her apple press ouside her door and there has been a good deal of running hither with the apples and thither with all manner of quaint containers. The Rector caught a chill,I'm not saying that it was the night of the apple bobbing but he staggered home looking most bedraggled and conducted Matins in full Muffler this morning. I'll take him a bowl of poached sweatbreads if he's no better tomorrow.
The village is preparing itself for the rigours of Winter. Have we salted enough pork belly? Are there kippers still for tea? Will the Bracombe Ouse rise above it's banks and drown us all? Are there enough rafts of measures? So many questions to perplex us as the light leaves us with shorter and shorter days.
I might seek solace at the Frog and Ferret this evening and share a Gin and It with the ratcatcher's mother.
Posted by Martha at November 2, 2008 04:45 PM