Just another day in Chagford

It occurred to me that the kind of thing we, on the edge of Dartymoor, take merrily for granted (regular morris dancing stopping traffic in the town square; the rule that every type of community event must incorporate a hog roast; three or four generations (human and canine) at all parties, etc.), is actually rather odd in other, more worldly, parts.

So here is a glimpse into the latest gathering of morris dancers who kindly visited us to make our lives dafter and, therefore, better. It wasn't any kind of festival or eclipse or celebration that I was aware of - just an opportunity to prance about on a sunny evening in a traditional manner.

I'm more of a Grimspound Border Morris girl myself, but I can enjoy a bit of hanky-waving when the opportunity arises.

There were two sides: Raddon Hill Clog Morris in Dennis the Menace rags

 and Winkleigh Morris in Suffragette ribbons.

 There was the requisite surfeit of bells, in this case made from bottle caps:

 and men with burly forearms sporting Ascot-worthy floral headgear. Marvelous.

But it's not really about the bells, ribbons and rags. Witnessing the hilarity which follows every slip,

it's clear that this dance form is taken seriously by its participants in a very different way to all the others I know. But the music and, even more so, the beer, are sacrosanct.

For more of the same and lots of very different, have a look at Westcountry Folklore.