One of the major differences between living in Sussex and living in Clifton Park is that, while I was living in New York, I rarely ever left my apartment and walked into town to find it teeming with men and women dressed in all manner of strange get-up, festooned in jingle bells and prancing about whacking at each other with big sticks. In fact, I don’t recall that happening at all. Here, it’s just another day.
Or, to be precise, the Day of Dance, a yearly festival my town hosts that brings out the Morris Men (and women), cloggers and the occasional Scottish Sword dancer.
Morris is the traditional English folk dance. Where it came from, no one knows but, depending on who you choose to believe, it is either a modern (by British standards) affectation or a mysterious ritual passed on from the misty depths of time.
Whatever. It’s a hoot. And a fun day out.
And how can you not admire a dance that includes drinking in the choreography?