I've spent a rather unusual weekend, more or less hanging around the churchyard of my childhood village in Somerset (no, I wasn't trying to nick the lead - that's all been taken. More than once). I was there to support the local community's three-day 'Festival of Bells and Flowers' to celebrate the 400th anniversary of the casting and hanging of four of the six heavy church bells that have been calling the villagers to worship since 1608. And still going strong today, as the team of bellringers demonstrated, pretty much all weekend really, apart from the bit when a group from 'out of town' arrived. Their speciality? Handbells, naturally.
Inside the church, the local ladies had each chosen a chuirch window and created a fantastic flower arrangement to decorate it with - and I bet you can't guess the theme. My mum's was the best, obviously, she'd picked the nursery rhyme 'Oranges and Lemons' and not only had she got all the right colour flowers, beautifully arranged, she'd also painted a backdrop of a London river scene dominated by the church of St Clements to go with it, based on an original 17th-century print. Amazing woman.
On top of all this, at least a dozen parishioners wore 17th-century costume for the whole weekend, and I got used to people addressing mum as 'wench' as she wafted around in a sort of giant nighty covered by a sober brown skirt, jacket, apron and white cap- the latter worn, apparently, to keep the lice falling into your dinner. Nice. Felt kinda out of place in my jeans, really.
But no Festival is complete without a party, and in the evening the rec I played on as a child was a sea of people as we tucked into a barbeque, watched the Morris dancers and jigged about to the brilliant Blackdown Hills samba band - I'd forgotten how much fun a country knees up can be!
Right, apparently I'm going on holiday in a couple of days, so excuse me while I unearth a suitcase...
Sarah