Folklore of Yorkshire (31 page)

Research over the last fifty years has increasingly demonstrated that many customs that have long been labelled as the product of remote antiquity, are not nearly as old as we would like to believe. Indeed, anything much older than a couple of generations seems to have acquired the reputation of a timeless, immutable tradition. In some cases, they are barely more than a couple of hundred years old and were not the spontaneous creation of the masses, but a corruption of practices which originated with prevailing hegemonies and expressed the dominant status quo of their age. Similarly, many such customs have been constantly revised over their lifetimes, and have usually undergone extinction and revival several times, especially as a result of major upheavals such as the Reformation, the Commonwealth and the two world wars.

Much of the confusion surrounding calendar customs stems from Victorian models of folklore and anthropology, especially a combination of the ‘myth-ritual’ and ‘survivals’ theory, which held that such traditions were relics of pagan rituals designed to ensure the fertility of the land. Morris dancing was regularly interpreted in such terms, although we now know it probably originated as a courtly fashion during the late Middle Ages and was only widely adopted by the general populace in the sixteenth century. Today, calendar customs are understood as having infinitely more diverse origins and functions, including celebrations to mark major points in the agricultural calendar, legitimised forms of begging and half-remembered imitations of forbidden Catholic feasts. This chapter will endeavour to do justice to their multiplicity.

As soon as the midnight chimes had ushered in 1 January, the ritual year in Yorkshire commenced with a classic ‘visiting custom’ known as first-footing. This widespread superstition dictated that the first person to cross the threshold of a house in the New Year had to possess certain physical characteristics and perform certain actions, to ensure the luck of the family in the coming year. Conversely, should the first person to cross the threshold possess certain undesirable attributes, then ill-fortune was sure to follow. The stipulations varied wildly from place to place, without any obvious pattern, but as Ronald Hutton observes, typically they ‘reinforce prevailing stereotypes of gender dominance and biological normality’.

For instance, in East Yorkshire, the first-footer had to be dark-haired, whilst around the North York Moors they were supposed to be fair. In Skipton, it was considered profoundly unlucky for a red-haired man to be the first to enter a house – to the extent that one family abandoned their home after this had occurred – but only a short distance away in the vicinity of the West Riding towns of Huddersfield and Bradford, red hair was considered the most auspicious attribute. The only commonality in all these places was that the first-footer had to be male. Often they were expected to symbolically brush away the old year, or to bring a spring of holly and lump of coal to place on the hearth. Equally, they were required to enter through the front door only and leave by the back.

As it was typical for first-footers to be rewarded with a donation of victuals or money, it was common for poorer locals who conformed to the specified characteristics to go from house to house offering their services, and like so many visiting customs discussed in this chapter, the practice became a legitimised form of begging in many communities. However, as belief in the efficacy of first-footing waned through the nineteenth century, in some areas those determined to maintain their profits from the tradition turned to coercion. Writing in 1901, a native of Elland in West Yorkshire recalls that during her childhood, ‘Unless we kept our doors locked, our houses were invaded by troops of mummers who … came to sweep the old year out.’

A more unique begging custom took place on New Year’s Day morning, in the East Yorkshire market town of Driffield, when children would walk the streets chanting,

Here we are at our town’s end

A bottle of rum and a crown to spend

Are we downhearted? No!

Shall we win? Yes!

At this summons, shopkeepers would come to their door and throw a handful of pennies into the street for which the children would then madly scramble. Until recently, the tradition was entirely unsponsored and spontaneous, but due to its decline during the 1990s, the town council stepped in and now organise it as an official town event.

In agricultural communities, the ritual year was greatly determined by the annual cycles of food production, and so the first farming day of the New Year was marked accordingly. Thus on Plough Monday – the first Monday after Twelfth Night – around the North York Moors and Holderness, teams of farm labourers would process around the parishes dragging a plough and soliciting donations. The Plough Stotts, as they were known, typically dressed with their shirts over their jackets, sashes across their breasts and ribbons on their hats, and were accompanied by a variety of mummers and musicians. As the pageantry grew more elaborate, it ensured that the processions endured long after their original function was obsolete.

In East Yorkshire, the team was accompanied by two disreputable characters; a molly dancer called Besom Bet and Blether Dick, who wore a coat covered in motley rags and carried a bladder attached to the end of a stick, with which he would whack the Plough Stotts as they performed a lewd dance. Meanwhile, in North Yorkshire, the mummers were known as ‘Madgies’ who cavorted with blackened faces and horned headdresses. The Plough Stotts of some North Yorkshire communities also processed with long-sword dancers, who performed an elaborate routine involving the interlocking of swords, culminating in the symbolic beheading and resurrection of their leader. This tradition continues on Plough Monday in Goathland, following a revival in 1923.

The 20 January marked the Eve of St Agnes, familiar to many from John Keats’ classic poem of that name and known in Yorkshire as a time ripe for divinatory practices. Typically, if they performed certain rituals, girls were supposed to receive a vision of the man they would marry. In one example, two girls must fast and remain silent throughout the day, then in the evening bake a mixture of flour, salt and water known as a ‘dumb cake’. Once cooked, this must be divided equally into two, and each girl had to carry her piece backwards up the stairs and into her bed, before it could be eaten. If these conditions were fulfilled, the girl was promised her future husband would appear to her in that night’s dream.

Kirkburton Rapier Dancers performing at Beverley. (John Billinglsey)

Shrovetide was observed in Yorkshire, as in most places across England, with the consumption of all those rich, perishable foodstuffs which would shortly be forbidden during the Lenten fast – cuts of meat on Collop Monday and pancakes on Shrove Tuesday. But whilst abstinence was observed for forty days and nights from Ash Wednesday, settlements along the Yorkshire coast marked the fifth Sunday of Lent with a feast of sorts. Known as Carlin Sunday, typically unappetising brown peas were fried in pig fat and seasoned with pepper to become ‘carlins’, whereupon they were consumed with great gusto.

Filey folklore claims the custom began when a ship called
The Carlin
was wrecked near the Brigg, and its cargo of peas washed up on shore. However, as Carlin Sunday is known across much of the north-east coast, it seems unlikely that its origin was so localised. The tradition more probably arose simply because peas were a readily available foodstuff permitted during the fast, and commonly donated in large quantities to the poor during this period by the local gentry. Inevitably, as the practice of fasting during Lent has declined with secularisation, so has the need for Carlin Sunday. Unlike Shrove Tuesday, however, its traditions have been long forgotten.

Lent came to an end with Palm Sunday, traditionally known as a day for gluttony and debauchery across the country. But in certain communities in West Yorkshire, particularly those around Calderdale, a more innocent custom prevailed. On the morning of Palm Sunday, young men and women would take bottles to collect water from the local holy well, which they would then mix with Spanish liquorice to create a concoction known as ‘Popolloli’. The gathering was a popular opportunity for courting, and would-be couples could ‘plight their troth’ by drinking from each other’s bottle. The custom was observed until the early twentieth century, but with many old wells falling into disuse, running dry and being built over, it has entirely died out.

Calderdale can boast another distinctive Easter custom known as the ‘Pace Egg Play’, performed on Good Friday. Like many mummers plays, it is a ‘hero-combat drama’ in which the protagonist must fight a series of duels, during the last of which he is fatally wounded and then subsequently resurrected. Here the hero is St George, who overcomes villains called the Black Prince of Paradine and Hector, before he is killed by the Bold Slasher and revived by the doctor. Whilst the action unfolds, a fool character named Toss Pot provides a running commentary and capers around the audience. At the end, the Pace Egg Song is sung by the cast, whilst Toss Pot collects donations, suggesting it originated as another example of a legitimised begging.

Whilst the Pace Egg was also performed in certain Lancashire towns, the Calderdale version is unique to the valley. The lyrics to the Pace Egg Song are not replicated elsewhere and the Calderdale mummers are known for their elaborate headgear, which is often worked on for weeks in advance. The play has been presented in the region almost continually for several centuries, and whilst textual references do not exist until the early 1700s, they suggest it was already a thriving tradition. Although performances briefly died out following the Great War, it was revived in 1932 and is continued today by two teams from the hilltop villages of Heptonstall and Midgley – the latter comprised of pupils from Calder High School.

The Pace Egg Play. (Brighouse Children’s Theatre)

On Easter Sunday, the rising sun was credited with unusual properties, including the belief that it danced with joy in celebration of the resurrection of Jesus Christ. Known across Europe, the superstition was widely observed in Yorkshire until quite recently, and folk would often ascend a local hill before dawn to witness the spectacle. Beamsley Beacon, above Ilkley, was a particularly favoured location for such gatherings. In the North and East Ridings, a divinatory custom called ‘wading the sun’ was also practiced, whereby a bucket of water was placed to catch the rising orb. If the sun ‘waded’ (i.e. was reflected in the water causing it to glimmer) then it promised a fine season to follow.

Easter Monday was marked across the county by egg-rolling games for children, and ‘Troll-Egg Day’ was a common colloquial name for the festival. But whilst this harmless activity is often revived today, the less savoury tradition of ‘buckle-snatching’ or ‘Leggin’ Day’ (as it was called in the East Riding) has been consigned to history. Recorded in towns such as Whitby, it was customary for boys to trip girls up and remove their shoes, which they would only return upon payment of some gratuity. Unsurprisingly, this antisocial, uncouth practice sometimes led to riots and like many loutish institutions of a similar ilk, it was stamped out by the establishment of local constabularies in the nineteenth century.

All Fools’ Day was on 1 April as it is today; pranks were played on the gullible until noon. Sending some callow youth on a fool’s errand was a particularly popular manifestation of this custom; for instance, to collect a pennyworth of pigeon’s milk from the chemist or a volume called
The Life of Adam’s Father
from a bookseller. A favourite in East Yorkshire was to send a boy to the cobbler’s for ‘stirrup oil’, a request which would be met by a beating from the shoemaker’s stirrup. The unlucky dupes were dubbed ‘gawks’ – a northern dialect word for cuckoo – and the hoaxes were known as ‘hunting the gawk’.

The arrival of the cuckoo was a cause for great celebration, as it heralded the onset of summer. In South Yorkshire, a tradition called ‘footing the cuckoo’ was observed, whereby the first person to hear a cuckoo in the neighbourhood would gather his friends and as many beer barrels as they could carry, take them to the trees in which the bird was heard and proceed to carouse the rest of the day away. It is said that in the Ribblesdale village of Austwick, the locals were so keen to keep the cuckoo and hopefully the summer with it, that they tried to wall it in. The bird simply flew away over the top, but the villagers maintained that ‘if they had only built the wall one round of stones higher, the bird could never have got out.’ The same tale is told about the West Yorkshire village of Marsden, who celebrate an annual fête called ‘Cuckoo Day’ in late April.