Dost thou goest a Mothering?

It’s March 14th – it’s Sunday March 14th – the fourth Sunday in Lent. It’s the day that the Lenten dietary restrictions are relaxed in memory of the miraculous five loaves and two fishes – It’s Simnel cakes and violets - It’s Mothering Sunday; and I am peeved!!

I am English, my children are English, so why this fixation on the American upstart Mothers’ Day – rather than our ancient tradition of Mothering Sunday?

The memory of homage paid to mothers goes back into the mists of time in this country. Some say that its origins can be found in the Roman Spring festival honouring their Mother Goddess Cybele. It certainly occurs right in the beginning of spring, and there are a number of similar celebrations in honour of a number of similar spring goddesses throughout the world – (in fact Easter is a direct descendent of the Saxon Fertility Goddess Eostra),

But whatever the ancient origins were, with the spread of Christianity many of the pagan festivals were adopted and amended for the new culture and beliefs.

And so we see a new tradition developing, of pious Christians wending their way back to visit their mother church on this day in order to attend the Laetare Sunday Mass honouring the Virgin Mary. After the reformation a similar service was continued; bolstered by the epistle listed for the fourth Sunday in Lent, “Jerusalem which is above is free, which is Mother to us all” - Galatians 4.26.

The activities that grew out of this religious requirement also grew out of the conditions of the day. Many young people were hired out as farm workers or domestic servants, and their time was strictly limited. Deeming this day a holy-day with a duty to return to their home or ‘mother’ church also meant that they had the opportunity to visit their earthly mothers as well.

And like all children, they knew the value of bringing with them a small present for Mum!

Because so many young girls were in service it became traditional to bake the Simnel cake (simila being the Latin word meaning fine, wheaten flour from which it is made) with its rich topping of baked marzipan and eleven balls depicting the loyal apostles of Christ.

However, there may be an older version. My grandmother, raised in rural Yorkshire, always put twelve around the edges and one in the centre. This she told me was for the twelve months in a year- plus the one in the centre to remind us of who created us all. She was a Yorkshire Methodist and not given to flights of fancy.

However, my great-aunt – a recognised expert on English farm traditions – and (say it softly) suspected of being a witch, dismissed such claims of religious fervor. They were, she confidently stated, twelve around the edges to echo the months in the year – plus one in the centre for the mother goddess who ruled the turning of the wheel – and all together they made thirteen which added up to the yearly lunar cycle.

I was an idealistic child and liked my aunt. I believed accordingly.

Actually it matters not where it came from, what matters now is that we do not forget that our tradition of Mothering Sunday is much different from the American imposed one of making the shopkeepers richer in May.

Girls trotting home with Simnel cakes lodged in their baskets were joined by farm lads with bunches of violets clutched in their large hands. Small gifts, from the heart for mothers they had left behind. They would later return to their place of work with their mother’s blessing.

Robert Herrick was very familiar with the tradition of Mothering Sunday and of the Simnel cake.

I’ll to thee a Simnel bring

‘gainst thou goes a Mothering;

so that, when she blesseth thee

Half that blessing thou’lt give to me.

– Herrick : Hesperides 1647

And surely I cannot be the only one who remembers when flower sellers gathered the violets and bunched them up for children to give to mothers at only 6d a bunch?

So I’m peeved, because I have just phoned my son, and advised him of the long tradition of Mothering Sunday; – he tells me I’ll get my card in May.

But after about a thirty minute diatribe on the real traditions of Mothering Sunday he has promised to go out and look for a bunch of violets; however I am not hopeful!

And as the possibilities of getting the daughter to bake a Simnel cake are virtually non-existent I’m off to sulk.

However, I have put in my orders for next year; and they have promised ‘to goest a Mothering’ like the best of them.

Which is one small step in returning to our English heritage in our house again!!


Have YOU phoned your Mother yet?????

They’re racing at Kipplingcotes!

Do you fancy a bit of a gamble on the horses? Visiting Yorkshire in March? Well the first meeting for 2010 is not until the 14th May at York – but if you really want to go to where the action is – get out to Kipplingcotes on the 18th March where it’s all happening... again!

Forget Ascot – that’s only been going since 1711; Epsom Downs is a mere child, born in 1780 – but Kipplingcotes? Well that is a different matter; Kipplingcotes is THE King in the sport of Kings!

And where on earth is Kipplingcotes I hear you ask? Well it is classified as a ‘small hamlet’ close to Market Weighton (also spelled Wicstun by the purists) and is located in what I still refer to as the ‘East Riding of Yorkshire’.

It is also the home of the oldest horse race in England. Horses and riders competed against each other for the first time in 1519 – but for the life of me I cannot find out why! What caused the first intrepid horsemen to put themselves and their horses to the test in what can be the most contrary county for weather conditions in March

The reason seems lost in time; but today it is still a proud tradition, one that has been carried on throughout the passage of time - without fail. In fact there is a clause, dating back to the race’s endowment in 1669, that states if the race misses a year it can never be run again.

This has placed some pressure on the organisers in time past, such as 1947, when the weather was so bad that even the farmers of East Yorkshire were reluctant to put their horses to the test; - things were looking bad; when one local farmer took it upon himself to walk a solitary cart horse around the course, ensuring that the conditions of the endowment were met. They breed ‘em tough in Yorkshire!!

Like all races the Kipplingcote Derby has its own set of rules –so for anyone considering entering here are some details you may wish to know.

First; riders must weigh in at a minimum of ten stones (or whatever it is now – one hopes the race official follow tradition rather than new fangled changes) –but this excludes the saddle. Anyone who doesn’t use the flat English saddle is probably carrying too much weight.

And this can be important because horses can be of any age – as indeed can be riders. One of the most successful ‘jockeys’ is Ken Holmes of Cliffe near Selby, who is 78 this year. He last won the race in 2002 and holds the record with 10 wins.

However, I understand that while the winner gets £50, the second place receives the sum of the entry fees, which can often outweigh the first prize – so there truly is no shame in coming second in the Kipplingcotes Derby!!

The course itself is extremely challenging. Not for these hardy souls the boring flat green swards of Beverley and their ilk; no this course provide a true test of horse and rider.

Starting at the now defunct railway station it meanders along farm tracks and back lanes; and while there has been no jockey fatalities, sadly some horses have succumbed to the pressure and collapsed. Perhaps age may be a factor in that.

The winning post is near the Londesborough World farm, where most people gather to see the eager competitors heading for home.

There is an excellent record of the 2009 race here; it seems that even after almost 500 years the race is still going strong.

So if you want somewhere to go on March 18th this year; if you are fascinated by the bond between horse and rider – don’t bother with Ascot or Epsom, head straight for Kipplingcotes and the 491st running of the Kipplingcotes Derby.

But you had better take a flask of hot tea and ‘something’ with you, it gets a little chilly in March, and the facilities are a little basic. But it’s a great day out for all that.

14th Feb is Eel season and ..Er.. something else!

My grandfather was an ardent eel fisherman : he was not a romantic man.

Consequently, the 14th February loomed large in our home as the start of the Eel catching season, rather than the romantic outpourings of St Valentines Day.

My grandmother was far more likely to be presented with a dead eel needing skinning than flowers and a card. She didn’t seem to mind though as she was also rather fond of jellied eels.

As I was growing into my teens however, she did take me to one side and impart some of the customs of her childhood to ensure my chances of scoring a boyfriend was enhanced. As a rather freckled faced, horse mad girl with my head in a book rather than the clouds; my attraction to the opposite sex was somewhat limited.

And so I dutifully slept with a fresh bay leaf under my pillow to ensure that I dreamed of my future lover. The only dream that I can actually recall was somewhat reminiscent of the Second World War – (but you know there might be something in it, as I eventually joined the military and married a soldier!!)

It always seemed somewhat contradictory that St Valentine, who was reputed to be famous for his chastity, took up the cause of the unwed. My cynical grandfather pointed out that the 14th Feb had been the eve of the Roman festival of Lupercalia, where boys drew the names of girls out of an urn and then the couples paired off. A sort of pre-industrial age dating agency.

We find this tradition being continued in some of the Valentine games where boys would write the names of girls on slips of paper, and then draw lots for their sweetheart for the year. They would often present a glove, as a symbol of their affection to them. And I recall seeing an elaborately embroidered glove presented to Queen Elizabeth 1st by one of her courtiers which recalled this custom.

As I grew older, my grandmother taught me how to bake what she called Plum Shuttles and which others referred to as Valentine Cakes, which hopeful girls presented to the boys of their choice as an indication of their willingness to receive their attention.

My Gran used to shape them into weaving shuttles, (hence the name Plum Shuttles) but I have forgotten what they actually looked like, and so I shape them into the more traditional heart shapes.

So for all desperate freckled faced girls – here is the traditional recipe for Plum Shuttles which are traditionally baked on the 14th February along with the eels.

My original recipe is in Imperial measurements, but my more metrically competent daughter has translated them into the Europe friendly ones. She also declared that they actually do work as she served them to her then boyfriend, who is now her husband.

(We are busily teaching the recipe to the 11 year old grand daughter – one can’t be too careful) anyway here it is :

1½ lb (600 g) plain flour

4 oz (100 g) castor sugar (add ordinary sugar if you haven’t got castor – it doesn’t make a blind bit of difference)

2 oz (50 g) chopped dried orange or lemon peel – or shove in same amount of mixed peel – see above for castor sugar

¼ pint (250 ml) of milk – don’t substitute

4 oz (100 g) best butter – yes that’s what it says, if you’ve only got second class butter bung it in anyway.

4 oz (100 g) currants

1 oz (25 g) yeast – Gran only used fresh yeast from the local bakers blended with a little of the sugar and some warm water; but if you must use dried can you do the maths – I can’t !!

Now, having gathered together all your ingredients it is time to make the cakes. Here’s the step by step process –according to My Grandmother (who was rather scathing about Mrs Beaton – it sounded personal!)


Step 1 – Rub the butter into the flour until it is well blended but not sticky. Mix in your sugar, whatever peel you have and the currants.

Step 2 – Now add the yeast and the milk, and then add sufficient water to make a soft dough. It depends on the flour but about ½ pints or 250 ml should be ample.


Step 3 – Leave it about 45 mins and help yourself to one of those chocolates or, as in my grandmother case, go skin your eel.


Step 4 – Turn out onto a floured board, and knead until smooth and lightly springs back when pushed. (The original recipe says to “create an homogeneous whole” and if you know what that means you can do that as well!

Step 5 – cut off small pieces and mould into the shape of a weaver’s shuttle – and if you know what they look like go for it; otherwise cut out the more traditional heart shape. The dough is springy (being yeast dough) and you might do better with a sharp knife to cut round a cardboard shape. I do. And if all else fails roll them into balls.

Step 6 – Place them onto a baking tray and let stand for approx 15 mins before baking in a fairly hot oven until golden brown. 375 F or 190 C should be fine.


Serve warm to the love of your life with lashings of fresh butter and enjoy.

Incidently, one of my bright ideas was to sprinkle them with coarse sugar before baking, but Gran did not approve – however that was my problem you can suit yourself.


My daughter tried icing them, but I did not approve – but again, you can suit yourself.

So have a happy Valentines Day on the 14th, indulge yourself these traditional goodies, and with champagne and chocolates if that’s your thing. Or, of course, you could take them with you when you go babbing for eels – either way it’s your choice and you are being traditionally English.

… Who lives in Drury Lane?

The muffin man was said to live in Drury Lane, and it is of course the home of the Theatre Royal – one of the icons of the West End.

While there had been cockpits and theatres build on the site before 1660, it was the theatre designed by Wren that really began the real history. Unfortunately it succumbed to the first destructive fire on 25th January 1672.

We learn from Pepys' Diary just how popular play-going was for Londoners,  and the new theatre designed by Wren opened in 1674 and could hold the staggering number of 2000 spectators.

The history of the Drury Lane theatre is bound up with two very famous names, David Garrick and Richard Sheridan. Garrick managed the theatre in the eighteenth century and in 1776 he sold his share to Richard Sheridan. As a popular playwright himself Sheridan was successful until 1809 when the theatre succumbed to its second devastating fire.

The tale is well known about Sheridan who sat watching his theatre burn down, drinking a glass of wine. He was famously reported to have said: "A man may surely be allowed to take a glass of wine by his own fireside!”

The theatre that we see today was opened in 1812 – the same year that Wellington defeated Napoleon at the Battle of Waterloo. Since then the interior has been extensively remodeled but today’s theatre only seats 205 people more that it did in 1674!

In 1794 the famous comedian Richard Baddeley (a former pastry chef) made a bequest of £100 to the Drury Lane Theatre Company so that they can buy a cake!

It is a Twelfth Night Cake which is purchased every year and the cast members of the current production, still in costume, eat a slice and drink a toast to the memory of one of the theatre's most famous actors.

Seeing as the toast is drunk in wine, maybe it is also a homage to Richard Sheridan who stood and watched his fortune go up in smoke so long ago.

To my knowledge this custom was still being observed in the 1980’s.

The present cast of 'Oliver' should have eaten the slice of cake and raised a glass of wine to the memory of the two Richards on the evening of the 5th January 2010 – Twelfth Night.

Does anyone know if they did?

I am off to Melbourne on business for a week - so no blogging until next Tuesday ...

Throwing the Hood at Haxey

Well, I’ve been known to throw a handkerchief or too in my time, but unlike Lady de Mowbray I’ve never chucked my hood away!

In all fairness to the Lady, it is actually said that she lost her scarlet hood while out riding toward Westwoodside across the hill that separates it from the village of Haxey, in Lincolnshire. It was blown away by an errant gust of wind, only to be chased down and picked up by a nearby farm worker – who, overcome by the Lady’s beauty or shyness (take your pick), was unable to return it personally to her.

A more self-possessed individual took the hood and handed it back to her –it was said (versions vary here), either by the Lady or the chivalrous one, that ‘He had acted like a lord, while the other had acted like a fool’.

Apparently, Lady de Mowbray was so amused that she donated 13 acres (you can do the maths for square metres if you really must), on condition that the chase for the hood should be re-enacted each year. Over the centuries this has become to be known as “The Haxey Hood”

Like all myths it is difficult to know just how much reliance can be put on the story, however the nobles mentioned in the tale did actually exist, records show a John De Mowbray who was born in 1310 and died in 1361 could have been the husband of the lady, and as Baron Mowbray of Axholme he would have had enough land to give some away – although I note that there appeared to have been little consultation by the lady before handing it over.

Actually it doesn’t matter whether it is true or not – what it does is give a really good excuse for engaging in a highly robust contact sport, probably a fair amount of beer drinking, some cheerful English folk songs and a satisfied sense that it can be done all over again next year.

What more could a village want – well probably to win it next time if you are regulars at the Carpenters Arms!

So what does it entail? The Game is played on 6th January every year unless it falls on a Sunday of course. It starts in the afternoon, when the fool and his twelve Boggans parade up the street to the Haxey Parish Church. The Boggans are the official players in the Game and need to be strong and vigorous young men, as they put themselves up against all comers. It is no surprise that they are often recruited from the local football team.

Chief among the Boggans is the King, who carries his roll of thirteen willows bound with thirteen withy bands. Traditionally the Boggans should be wearing red coats, but even those that don’t still keep the traditionally red somewhere about them in memory of the Lady’s Hood.

The Fool – representing the one that was too shy to hand the hood back – leads the procession and has the right to kiss any lady he chooses throughout the ceremony. Now that certainly is out of character if you ask me; or perhaps he has gained courage over the centuries.

He too wears red about him in honour of the hood, blackens his face with soot and carries a whip filled with bran to lay about those who come too near – how that helps with the kissing bit confuses me.

Before the game begins in earnest the fool mounts a platform and makes a speech before he reminds all combatants of the rules of the game:

Hoose agen Hoose

Toon agen toon

If tho’ meet a man knock ‘im doon

But don’t ‘Ut ‘im!

Strangely, while he’s making these pronouncements a small fire doused with damp straw creates a cloud of smoke which pours around him, known as Smoking the Fool. This appears to be the remnant of a more sinister activity where the Fool was hung from a tree over a smoking fire and then allowed to drop into well wetted straw. Occupational Health and Safety are probably having a fit!!

Now the game begins, and the hood is thrown up. As far as I can tell the aim of the game is to seize the hood and carry it over the boundary to their village while everyone else attempts to stop them.

I got all excited the first time this happened – but I gather they were just preliminaries it is when the ‘Sway’ is thrown into the arena that the fun really begins. A ring of Boggans surround the area while either the Fool or some other unsuspecting notable throws the leather hood high into the air. The ring of Boggans break up and that’s the last we see of any sense of order.

Every able bodied man or woman is encouraged to take part in this mass of heaving humanity, even bystanders have been caught up in the general melee. The goal is to get the Sway to the village pub and while it cannot be kicked it can be pushed, pulled or dragged in the general direction. Movement is not rapid.

In fact it can take hours and in the meantime there is no safety for hedges, animals or stray stone walls. Eventually the Sway arrives at one of the pubs and the landlord takes charge of it and the party begins!! The winning pub hosts the Hood until the same time next year when it all begins again.

What a way to spend Epiphany! And if you want to see what it’s all about watch this and listen to the songs that they are singing – that should please ‘Show of Hands’ – in some places we do still hark back to our Roots and celebrate our English Heritage with Gusto.

The History of English Folk Tradition

The history of the English Folk Tradition lies with the history of the agricultural and labouring classes of our past.  At one time they were an integral part of the calendar year, and many of them echoed even further back to the ancient pagan traditions so vitally bound up with the continual round of sowing, planting and harvesting.

Surprisingly, in a country which developed and introduced the Industrial Revolution these traditions and customs have been incredibly tenacious - up until recently.  With what appears to be deliberation, the government with the assistance of the main stream media, have attempted to denigrate all that England stood for and to destroy all semblence of our true culture.

But, if we are to move forward then we must understand where we have come from - and I don't mean the disgraceful revisionist history being taught in the schools and universities at the moment.  Revisionist history whose only aim appears to be to destroy our pride in our people, our culture and our nation.  People without pride become the louts on the streets and people deprived of their history become displaced and displeased.

My aim is to re-introduce the people of England to some of the cultural practices that they may not have been aware of - and as our traditions are seasonal - so this blog will reflect that as well.

But I wonder how many of the old ways are now left; it will be interesting to see!

So let's start in January - perhaps you were not aware that it is unlucky to give credit on the 1st of January or to cause someone to be in your debt by lending them something!

After the Christmas season the darkness of winter descends again.  And the customs of the land reflect the short days and the long winter evenings, but the winter solstice has now passed and the next cycle of ploughing and planted is not that far off. 

In our pagan past there would have been gods and goddesses to be propitiated to ensure a successful harvest; the remnants of these customs survive in the mummers plays and the midwinter sword dances.

Huddled around the fire at night, the English would spend their time passing on the tales of the heros, or playing Nine Men's Morris and that perennial pub favourite 'Shuffleboard'.

In England today you might still be able to catch the Mummers Plays and Sword Dancing in Durham, Northumberland (I'm a traditionalist).  In Yorkshire the principle teams that I once knew were at  North Skelton; Handworth; and Lingdale - and the midwinter sword dances had a symbolism which still echoes with us.

Danced around midwinter they symbolised the death of the old year and the promise of the year to come.  The Yorkshire dancers used the traditional long, flexible steel swords, while the less ambitious chose the long wooden swords.  After a number of sequences portraying the coming of the new and the going of the old years; the swords were secretly intertwined (dancers movements hidden by the closeness of the dancing circle) and then on cue; one dancer would hold the interlocked sword knut triumphantly aloft to admiring applause.

Do not be dismayed by the sneering putdowns by the so-called modernists, or the dismissal of our traditions by the pseudo-intellectuals.  Those that patronisingly laugh at the colourful costumes of the Morris Dancers - or who throw their hands up in horror denouncing as 'racist' the five century old tradition of 'blacking up' by our dancers are also the ones who would gaze in awe and admiration at the Swiss Guards in the Vatican City!

They have little love for, and certainly limited knowledge of who we are and where we have come from. They deserve our pity not our anger.  Let us trust that we will educate them in the ways of the English so that they can learn to love the place of their birth and the customs of their people.

Alas, like George Orwell I am not optimistic - and if we cannot, then like him I am content to despise them as they despise us!