Celebrating their 51st anniversary, the Mendip Morris Men have always danced throughout the North Somerset area, performing the traditional dances of the Cotswolds.
Mendip Morris Men can be identified by their red, gold and blue baldricks (crossed sashes) adorned with King Alfred’s jewel at the back and the Somerset wyvern at the front. Black breeches and gaily decorated straw hats complete the outfit.
Each summer, on Thursday evenings, we dance outside local pubs and in village centres, bringing with us the exciting sight and sound of this ancient custom.
After you've finished here, you may like to hear this poem sung on myspace...
Poem 162 of 230, WalkaboutsVerse (please see my blog): TEES TO TYNE: FIRST IMPRESSIONS - SUMMER 2001
Where traditions are not so rare; Sea, country and works scent the air; A multitude of monuments, Planted tubs and patterned pavements.
The longish pedestrian malls; The remnants of defensive walls; Historic buildings are a gauge Of the respect for heritage.
Wheat, rape and pines in the fields; Estuaries guarded by shields; Long sandy beaches and wide scenes; Romantic-ruin go-betweens.
Rivers in parts licked by trees, Or fringed by boat clubs, wharfs, gantries, And crossed by practical delights - Varied spans, forming pleasing sights.
Fine churches headed at Durham; Football kits ad infinitum; Kept castles - one for study; Masonry behind masonry.
And, with moulding-works out that way, It’s somewhere for a longer stay..?
After you've finished here, you may like to hear this poem sung on myspace...
Poem 2 of 230, WalkaboutsVerse (please see my blog): WALKABOUT WITH MY PEN
Once drove an old sedan, up north, From a place in Sydney to Cairns; Then to Kuranda I went forth, By train, to look without set plans.
I browsed through the trendy market, With fresh fruits of tropical kind; Walked to the creek through lush thicket - Nature’s hand giving peace of mind.
I dined in a scenic cafe; Then, outside, as I wrote for yen, Some passing Kooris called-out: “Hey, You go walkabout with your pen.”
Request or question, I don’t know - Assured voices, elderly men. That’s now several years ago, And I’ve seen the world - with my pen.
If you have walked in the heart of the Greenwood and have bathed in the light of its living force remember what you have felt; and whenever you pass a tree whether it stands alone in a wilderness of human making or in the depth of woodland, give a moment of your time to listen to its voice. For in many parts of the land the trees are dying only the hearts that know something of the true wisdom can save them. (Anon)
Time to welcome in the Summer, health and happiness.
Si usted ha paseado por el centro del bosque verde y se ha bañado en la luz de su fuerza viva recuerde lo que usted ha sentido; y siempre que usted pase al lado de un árbol si está parado solamente en un yermo de fabricación humana o en la profundidad del bosque, dé un momento de su tiempo para escuchar su voz. Porque en muchas partes de la tierra los árboles se están muriendo solamente los corazones que tengan algo de la sabiduría verdadera pueden salvarlos. (Anón)
(Via satellite, I've heard, and enjoyed, Scottish junior and senior Folk Awards...when are the ENGLISH Folk Awards?!)
Poem 213 of 230, walkaboutsverse.741.com: MORE AMOR PATRIAE
There is Tai Chi AND there is tennis, Line is fine BUT so is Morris, There is curry AND there is the roast, And, when England is playing host, It is the rest-of-the-world's good wish To sense culture that is English.
(Merry Christmas, I love watching and listening to Morris - a great part of OUR culture - and have you on my Top Friends.)
After you've finished here, you may like to hear this folk-carol on myspace -
230 of 230, walkaboutsverse.741.com: AS GOSPELLERS HAVE SAID/CHRISTMAS SUNG SIMPLY
As gospellers have said, Beneath signalling skies, On land dusty to tread, A trough in a stable Was the strawy first-bed Of a divine baby - The forgiving Godhead.
A season for new hope - There then and here now; The yuletide of goodwill - There then and here now.
In respect of this chance, Beneath bright or dark skies, Faith’s the star that we glance Attending Christ’s churches And trying to enhance, With singing and ritual, Our God-loving stance.
Down yonder little leafy lane Where distant sound's of past remain, I hear the sound of old time folk Who dwell within the memoried Oak.
A maiden's voice in song so sweet Percolates the forest deep, She pick's the fruit of the forest born Her dulcet tone of love, forlorn.
Deep within its heart doth flow A winding, babbling brook so slow, Meandering on it's way to sea, The fuel of life and destiny.
And low, in distant muffled sound The woodsman's axe on bark doth pound, And hails of "Timber" do resound As low, the beauteous tree doth ground.
Trail's where trails of Deer have trod Age old courses, barren of sod, Weave and mingle through the growth There two pronged prints like - Slivey Toves.
Perhaps here so have lovers walked In time and distant moment's talked, Of love, or life, or other things Like babes in arms, or wedding rings.
In silent secret rings of thought The tree's remember, do not distort The happening life of decades past, Of moments shared and born to last.
Hello jolly Morris men just taking a walk around the woodlands of the world.
