Dispatches from the South: Easter in England

England and America may be different in many ways, but in no way are they more different than when it comes to religion. The US has separation of Church and State and no official religion, yet it is an extremely religious nation (to outsiders, almost frighteningly so) and any presidential candidate foolhardy enough to admit to not believing in God would quickly find himself yesterday’s news. In England, there is an official church, conveniently called “The Church of England.” Religion and politics are intertwined (mostly to keep those pesky, Parliament-blowing-up Catholics away from the real seats of power; gosh, but those protestants can hold a grudge!) and religion is taught in schools, yet I do not observe the level of day-to-day religious fervour that forms the backdrop of life in the US.

The irony is, Americans are more religious, but don’t get any religious holidays off; England is not so religious, yet I am about to start a four-day weekend because of Easter. (In a few weeks time, I’ll also get a day off for Whit Sunday; no one knows what that means any more, but at least we don’t have to go to work.)

We could now explore the topics of religion in society, or the ramifications of government-sanctioned religious persecution, or how religion, official or not, impacts upon the national identity, but instead, we’ll talk about the true meaning of Easter: the candy.

With my children all grown and living in the States, I am not as acquainted with the confectionary customs of an English Easter as I could be, but some surprising differences have not escaped my notice:

•  The main attraction in the English Easter candy collection is a large, chocolate egg, not a chocolate bunny as God intended.
•  I have no idea what they hold all this candy in, as there appears to be no such thing as an Easter Basket to put it all in.  And, yes, that means no shredded green cellophane that is supposed to resemble grass, either.
•  The English also do not dye Easter Eggs. I know this, not only because there are no stacks of Easter egg colouring kits and extra racks of white vinegar for sale in the supermarkets, but because the eggs here are brown. I used to love coloring eggs in the States, taking pristine white eggs and turning them a vivid shade of yellow or red. Here, I’m afraid, an egg dipped in any hue would come out the color of (to be polite) mud.
•  On the other hand, they have real hot-cross buns here. I had, naturally, heard about them when I lived in America (and the fact that they cost one-a-penny or two-a-penny) but I never actually saw any. Here, you can’t swing a marshmallow chickie without hitting one.

That’s about all seven years of casual observation has gleaned. Being a non-religious guy who married into a non-religious family with no young children about, I really haven’t had the opportunity of seeing the Real Easter up close. I hear rumours of Egg Rolling and other Easter-type festivities, but they remain just that. To really get a handle on what Easter means to the English you would have to have a firm grounding in State School and/or church fetes.

Suffice it to say that as my bus rumbles through Henfield (yes, that’s where I write these things) on its meandering path toward my office in Brighton, I see glimpses of Easter paraphernalia for sale in the shops—chickens (stuffed toys, not real ones) large chocolate eggs, hot cross buns—and hear snatches of conversation concerning plans for the upcoming four-day weekend, but there is no talk of sunrise services or Maundy Thursday meals, and I haven’t seen a big, lime-green flouncy hat anywhere.

But I expect you need to go to a church fete for that.

All dressed up and ready for Easter services.