by Taffy Thomas
Wassail the trees that they may bear
Many a damson bright and fair,
For the more or less fruit they may bring
As we do give them wassailing.
Wassailing invokes old magic. In the story that follows, it is the damson tree that is magic.
There was once a young girl who was very poor. Neither her father nor her mother had work, so some days that little girl and her parents didn’t have a proper meal. Even though that girl was poor in this way, she was rich in another: she had good friends. She also had a precious thing, a yellow bag that was given to her by her favourite uncle. It didn’t matter that this bag was usually empty. She lived next door to a greedy, selfish old witch, who had an identical yellow bag. This woman had cupboards so full of food that she couldn’t have eaten it all if she lived to be 110. She was so selfish that some days she was tipping food into a rubbish bin while the hungry girl next door was looking over the hedge with her tongue hanging out.
One day the girl, clutching her yellow bag, was running down the road to the park to meet her friends. The selfish old witch, clutching her own yellow bag, was rushing down the road to the shop to buy even more food. With their heads down running, neither the girl nor the witch could see where they were going. At the crossroads they bumped into each other and ended up in a heap in the middle of the road. The old witch turned on the girl in a fierce threatening way, accusing her of knocking her over. Seeing the old woman’s wild eyes and clenched fists, the girl grabbed a yellow bag and ran away. The old witch screamed after her.
In her confusion and fear, the girl had grabbed the wrong yellow bag. At the corner the girl realised the bag was jingling. She was an honest girl from a good although poor home, and wanted to go back. However, when she looked behind her, the old witch was still screaming after her. No way could the girl go back; it wouldn’t have been safe. She ran into an orchard. She ran up to an apple tree and said:
Apple tree, apple tree, hide me
So that the old woman can’t find me,
For if she does she’ll break my bones
And bury me under cold marble stones.
To the girl’s amazement, the apple tree answered, ‘No – try the pear tree!’
She ran up to the pear tree and said:
Pear tree, pear tree, hide me
So that the old woman can’t find me,
For if she does she’ll break my bones
And bury me under cold marble stones.
The pear tree said, ‘No – try the damson tree!’
The girl ran up to the damson tree and said:
Damson tree, damson tree, hide me
So that the old woman can’t find me,
For if she does she’ll break my bones
And bury me under cold marble stones.
The damson tree said, ‘Yes – wriggle down into my roots.’ Clutching the yellow bag, the girl wriggled down into the roots of the damson tree.
She lay there shaking with fear, as the old witch huffed and puffed into the orchard. The old witch went up the apple tree and asked the question:
Apple tree, apple tree, have you seen
A little girl with a wig and a wag and a bright yellow bag,
Who stole all the money that ever I had?
The apple tree answered:
I’ve not seen
A little girl with a wig and a wag and a bright yellow bag,
Who stole all the money that ever you had – try the pear tree.
So the old witch huffed and puffed over to the pear tree, and asked the question:
Pear tree, pear tree, have you seen
A little girl with a wig and a wag and a bright yellow bag,
Who stole all the money that ever I had?
The pear tree answered:
I’ve not seen
A little girl with a wig and a wag and a bright yellow bag,
Who stole all the money that ever you had – try the damson tree.
In the roots of the damson tree the young girl shook in terror as the old witch drew closer and asked the question:
Damson tree, damson tree, have you seen
A little girl with a wig and a wag and a bright yellow bag,
Who stole all the money that ever I had?
The damson tree answered:
Yes! I have seen
A little girl with a wig and a wag and a bright yellow bag,
Who stole all the money that ever you had –
And she went that way.
And the damson tree pointed a big branch out of the orchard and over the hill.
The old witch huffed and puffed out of the orchard and over the hill in hot pursuit.
After a few minutes the girl, still shaking and clutching the yellow bag, wriggled out of the roots of the damson tree and ran home to her mother. She gave her mother the yellow bag and told her everything that had happened. Her mother took some money from the bag, went to the shop and bought some food. So that was one day that poor family sat down together for a proper meal.
As for the old witch, she didn’t go hungry, for she had so much food in her cupboard that she couldn’t have eaten it all if she lived to be 110. Mind you, she never got her bag back. I think that served her right for being so greedy. What do you think?
GRASMERE
Most English churches today have floors made of stone or even marble. However, many years ago, as far back as the Middle Ages, the majority of them would have been far more basic, with simple, earth floors covered with rushes. So on festival and feast days, it became a tradition for the local people to bring fresh rushes to the church, which would be scattered all over the floor to sweeten the air and help keep the congregation warm and their feet dry. The practice was referred to as rushbearing and the children often played a very important role carrying the rushes in the procession.
In the 1800s, when stone floors became more commonplace in churches, the tradition of rushbearing all but died out. However, five churches – all in Cumbria, and St Oswald’s of Grasmere among them – held on to the tradition, still maintaining it today by holding a procession followed by a special service in the church. In Grasmere, Rushbearing Day is the Saturday which falls the closest to St Oswald’s Day which, in the year of the new Millennium – that is the year 2000 – happened to be the saint’s day itself.
The following tale focuses on a young Grasmere lad who took part in the Rushbearing Procession in the years preceding the First World War.
This story comes from the picturesque Cumbrian village of Grasmere. It involves a boy, a harp, a special village festival and a war that was raging hundreds of miles away from the peace and tranquility of Lakeland. Appropriately, the story begins in a storyteller’s garden: a garden belonging to me which happens to be across the road from a church, St Oswald’s Church.
One hot August day in the year 2000, dressed in a buttercup-yellow waistcoat and a cream panama hat, I was leaning on the dry-stone wall of this garden, watching a procession passing by. The procession had woven its way around the narrow lanes of the village and was now passing my garden and heading for the church.
Anyone in Grasmere that day who was unfamiliar with the traditions of this Lakeland village might have wondered what on earth was going on, for the people, young and old, who marched in the procession were carrying strange-shaped sculptures crafted from reeds – or rushes – decorated with flowers. I had lived in Grasmere for many years, and knew that this was Rushbearing Day, a festival which had its roots hundreds of years ago, back in the Middle Ages, when local people walked together to their local church and scattered fresh rushes on the earthen floor, to purify the air and help keep out the cold.
As they passed by, the people in the procession laughed and waved to me, for me and my special storytelling garden were well known in the community. I waved back, admiring the rushes, most of which were fashioned into the shape of a cross or some other biblical symbol, such as a basket to represent the story of the baby Moses set adrif
t in his makeshift wicker bed on the River Nile.
However, one sculpture carried in the procession that day stood out from the others and caught my eye, for the reeds of this sculpture had been twisted into the shape of a harp.
By now, a small crowd had gathered on the narrow pavement on the other side of the garden wall to watch the procession, and if those people were wondering about the significance of this haunting, multi-stringed instrument in the rushbearing ceremony, I certainly wasn’t. I knew the two people who were carrying it and I knew their story. Their names were Terry and Sarah O’Neill, and you might recognise their surname as being from Irish heritage. What’s more, you might also know that the harp is Ireland’s official symbol and has appeared on its coat of arms since medieval times.
But national pride was not the only reason why Terry and Sarah O’Neill were carrying a harp in the procession that summer’s day, and as the procession made its way through the church gate, I began to tell the crowd of onlookers their tale.
‘Over 100 years ago,’ I began, ‘there was born in this village a baby boy. His parents named him William – although everyone called him Billy – and they also gave him the rather grand middle name of Warwick. So his full name was William Warwick Peasecod.’
One of the little girls in the crowd sniggered. ‘What a funny name! Peasecod!’
‘Yes, I suppose it does sound peculiar, but that’s only because ‘peasecod’ is a word that has gone out of use today. Once upon a time it was more commonly used to describe the pod of a pea plant.’ I smiled and the little girl smiled back.
Then I carried on with my tale. ‘So where were we? Yes! William, or Billy as he was known, was born here in Grasmere in 1898. He was a good son and, to his parents’ delight, he was gifted with a charming singing voice. So when he was old enough, Billy joined the church choir. He could be found over there,’ I said, pointing to St Oswald’s over the road, ‘every Sunday morning and sometimes on weekdays too, whenever there was a wedding.
‘Billy was among those children who, when they were big enough and strong enough, were chosen to carry the rushes in the annual Rushbearing Procession. This caused Billy much excitement and was a matter of great pride to his parents. All they could talk about for days on end was what shape Billy’s rushes should be and how they could make the sculpture.
‘Then Billy’s parents hit on an idea. As their family was of Irish descent, wouldn’t it be grand if Billy’s rushes were in the shape of a harp? Not only was this the symbol of the beloved land of their fathers, it was also a reference to the Harp of David from the Bible story in which David the shepherd boy – chosen by God to be the future King of Israel – is invited to play the harp for Saul, King of the Israelites. Like Billy, David was musically gifted, and his harp playing was so beautiful that it soothed the anxious king and gave him renewed strength for his forthcoming battle against the Philistines.
‘So having settled on a design, Billy’s father went to see the local carpenter and commissioned him to make his beloved son a wooden frame in the shape of a harp. When the frame was ready, Billy’s mother went down to the shore of Grasmere to gather some rushes. Then she rowed out into the deep, dark waters of the lake to collect some fresh waterlilies.
‘On the eve of Rushbearing Day, Billy’s mother worked long into the night, threading the rushes in and out and all around the wooden frame, and weaving the lilies in amongst them. By morning, when Billy came down into the parlour to have his breakfast, the harp was ready.
‘Billy’s harp was the finest of all the rushes in the procession that day and his parents were filled with so much joy and pride as they watched their son carrying the harp into the church, that they promised to keep the same wooden frame and decorate it for Billy to carry in the Rushbearing Procession every year from that day forwards.
‘And they did just that. Every Rushbearing Day, as Billy turned thirteen, fourteen, fifteen and then sixteen, he could be seen alongside his friends and companions in the procession through the village, holding his harp high up in the air and smiling broadly.
‘But while the days in Grasmere remained peaceful and calm, life outside the little Lakeland village was far from either of those things, for the Great War had begun, and Lord Kitchener had put out his call for volunteers to fight the Allies’ campaign on the Western Front.
‘So not long after his seventeenth birthday, in 1915, Billy Peasecod exchanged his harp made of rushes for a standard-issue rifle and joined the Border Regiment as a signaller. After saying a tearful goodbye to his mother and father, Billy set off for France.
‘It was the signaller’s job to send signals and messages back from the fighting to the Company’s headquarters, which meant that poor young Billy spent most of his days near the front line in the midst of all the action and, of course, the danger.
‘Those long, terrible days in the trenches left Billy feeling a lifetime away from the green valleys and rugged mountains of Lakeland and from his solid, little, slate-grey home on the edge of the beautiful village, nestled between the River Rothay and the twinkling waters of Grasmere. But like King Saul, who found comfort in David’s harp playing before fighting the Philistines, Billy took comfort in his memories of home, of singing alongside his friends in the choir, and of those special days when he would carry his harp in the parade.
‘The war raged on. Two Rushbearing Days came and went and, watching the processions back in Grasmere village, Billy’s parents dreamed of the day when their son would be back and carrying his harp once again. But sadly their wish would never be fulfilled, for on 5 November 1917, nineteen-year-old Billy was killed on the battlefields of France.
‘Although they couldn’t bear to part with the harp, Billy’s mother and father could not face the thought of anyone carrying it in his place in the Rushbearing Procession – not in the year after he died nor in the summers that followed. So gradually the harp fell into disrepair.
‘Eventually, Billy’s parents grew old and, one after the other, were put to rest next to their beloved son in the graveyard at St Oswald’s. But their story, and that of the harp, and of the young choirboy with the beautiful Irish voice who became a soldier, lived on, as one generation of Billy’s family passed it down to the next.
‘And now I have passed it on to you,’ I said, lifting my panama hat and giving a little bow to my listeners.
A ripple of applause ran round the small crowd. Thanking me, the people began to disperse, some to follow the procession into the church, others to make their way off around the village to do a little sightseeing.
Only the little girl who had chuckled over Billy Peasecod’s name hung back. Tugging on the corner of my waistcoat, she looked up into my whiskery face and asked, ‘But what about those people? The lady and the man who were carrying the harp just now? Who are they?’
‘Ah, that’s a very good question,’ I said, ‘as the answer closes the circle in Billy’s tale. They are members of the O’Neill family, Billy Peasecod’s relatives. As I said in my story, no one felt that it was right to carry Billy’s harp for a very long time after he died, but because it’s the Millennium Rushbearing this year, which makes it a very special year, Terry and Sarah O’Neill thought it would be nice to remember Billy. So they had that harp specially made. It’s an exact replica of the one Billy had.’
The little girl nodded. ‘It’s a good story,’ she said. ‘I liked it. And I think I would have liked Billy too, if I had met him. Is it okay if I tell his story to my friends?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I think Billy would like that very much indeed.’
HELM CRAG
Helm Crag towers high above the Lakeland Village of Grasmere. On the summit, a number of rocks have been naturally sculpted by time and nature into the shapes of a lion, a lamb, and an old lady playing an organ, when viewed from the right angles. These unique landmarks feature in the following tale, along with a golden eagle. The last remaining Lakeland golden eagle lives on a flat mountaintop ridge a
bove Haweswater, known as High Street. From time to time, he can be seen soaring high above the Vale of Grasmere – just occasionally above the Lamb rock, or on top of the Lion rock at the summit of Helm Crag.
One day, the golden eagle was holding court, sitting in his favourite spot on top of the Lion’s head up on Helm Crag.
‘Me, I’m the biggest. I’m the best. I’m the King of the Birds. I’m definitely the best!’ he cried.
He was a boaster and a poser. In fact, all the birds had grown fed up with him. He had got a bit too big for his beak! So they decided to bring him down a perch or two.
They went to ask the wisest of the birds, who of course is the wise old owl, known as a ‘hullet’ in Lakeland – as indeed it is in Shakespeare’s plays. A baby one’s called a ‘yowlet’.
So they went to ask the hullet what to do, and the hullet said, ‘Well, it’s obvious. Tomorrow, all the birds of the air must gather on the top of Helm Crag and when I say, “On your marks. Get set. Go”, you must all take off. Whichever bird can fly the highest is the King of the Birds.’
When the birds told the eagle about the challenge, the eagle said, ‘Well, that’s a waste of time. It’ll be me. I’m the biggest and I’m the best.’
The birds looked at the hullet and said, ‘You see, there’s the problem.’
‘Leave it to me,’ the hullet replied.
So the following morning, all the birds of the air gathered on the top of Helm Crag. The hawk posse gathered on top of the Lion. There on the Lion’s head was the golden eagle, and there was the kestrel, the sparrowhawk, the falcon and the osprey. And as soon as they gathered there, the eagle started boasting: ‘What a waste of time! Me, I’m the biggest. I’m the best.’
Perched on the rock known as the Lamb, right next to the hawks, were the big black birds: the rook, the raven, the jackdaw and the crow. And just a little bit farther along the crag, on top of the rock called the Organ, were the small birds: the robins, the blue tits, the great tits, the finches and a long line of sparrows.
