Rogation Service in Aldbury, England

People sometime ask me why I live in England. Usually the implied context is that I must be out of my mind. Although terrorism has now, thankfully, abated somewhat on the mainland it is by no means gone: only last week another bomb went off near a Royal Mail sorting office (one person hurt) and the police and intelligence services advises us all to be extra vigilant up to the forthcoming general election. Add to this what seems to be one agricultural disaster after another (BSE or “Mad Cow Disease”, Swine Pest, and now Foot and Mouth Disease), throw in a chronic infrastructure with, it sometimes seems, train crashes happening more often than the timely departure of the morning commuter train to London, often with terrible loss of lives, and the question seems very valid indeed. Some days I don't know what to say.

But then there are other days when I know exactly why I live here. Day like the last Sunday of April, when I visited the little town of Aldbury, only about 15-20 minutes drive from where I live.

Now, Aldbury is a town I have been searching for for a couple of years. When I originally moved to this area of England about four years ago, I rented a small flat in St Albans. This is another lovely city, the site of the second largest Roman settlement in Britain, and the place of the first martyrdom on British soil: the beheading of the Roman solider Alban, who hid a Christian priest and when the soldiers came too close to finding him, he exchanged clothes with the priest, was captured and eventually beheaded on the hill where the impressive Cathedral now stands for the crimes of failing to renounce the Christian god and refusing to worship the emperor and the other state gods.

But that's a different story, which I will save for another letter. Shortly after I had moved here, I drove around the surrounding countryside, aimlessly exploring the scenery and happily getting lost on the little back-roads. Driving for the sake of serendipity and none other. I remember discovering this little village, but at the time only driving through and promising myself that I'd be back soon to explore more. Well, it took a couple of years to find it again, but on Saturday I did find it and made a mark on my map. Sunday morning I got up early, packed my cameras, and drove to Aldbury.

Imagine, if you can, a small village of maybe a hundred houses. The center of the village is the small pond, maybe thirty meters long and fifteen or twenty wide, and home to a breeding pair of ducks. The nearby road is helpfully signposted “Beware: Crossing Ducklings!”, and on the green surrounding the pond is the original village stock. We no longer lock criminals up in these instruments for public display and humiliation anymore, but this is a very well preserved specimen and an interesting reminder of village life.

All around the pond, surrounding it in a rough circle, are half-timbered houses made from red brick, the timber black from age. There is not a modern house in sight. Apart from the occasional TV or radio antenna, a time traveling visitor from three hundred years ago would have had no problems recognizing the place. The church, an imposing gray stone structure with some delightful stained glass windows, is just visible from one end of the center, standing in the churchyard slightly off to one side, next the the village school which I would guess is a seventeenth century building.

And as if this wasn't enough, when I arrived there on Sunday morning, there was parked, just outside the hotel and pub that is the largest building by the pond, a 1923 vintage Rolls Royce. Beautiful, black, and well preserved. But it gets better...

The village is located in a broad valley between two long series of hills, hugging one of these hills and leaving the fertile valley open for farmland. My route took me up and over these hills, and the road down offered lovely views of the village below, all red bricks glowing and the thatched roofs taking on a golden color in the morning sun.

I parked in the central “square” which, as I have suggested, is more of an oblong shape. After admiring the Rolls, I took my cameras and went for a discovery walk in the village.

There are newer houses in Aldbury, but they are relatively few and far between and as a rule they are done nicely and fits into the general atmosphere. And this atmosphere is dominated by the old houses, half-timbered and usually with red brick, many thatched and all extremely well preserved. You would have thought it is a museum, but it isn't. Just a village and a community of people that are proud of their heritage. They take care to preserve more of that heritage than just the buildings, though I didn't know this at the time.

There are two pubs in the village. The Greyhound Inn is at the central pond and also functions as a hotel, while the Valliant Trooper is maybe 150 meters away in a lovely crooked building near what seems to be another natural square in the town's layout.

It was a beautiful early Sunday morning. They clouds were racing over the sky with the light constantly changing, highlighting a wonderful detail in a house here, hiding another there. Always changing but the low golden light suited this ancient village.

As I walked back from the Valiant Trooper, I heard first some notes from a harmonica being played, followed immediately by the unmistakable clickety-clock sound of the Morris Dancers. “Lovely,” I thought, “they must be practicing for May Day.” I was wrong, as it turned out, but I hurried along, following the sounds.

I don't know if you know what Morris Dancers are: they are specific to England. Morris Dancers are groups of men (traditionally always men) who perform ritualized folk dances, usually associated with May Day. They wear white clothes with colorful decorations, with a design that is specific to each group. This group featured an image of the stock by the pond, that I described earlier. They wear wooden shoes, often with bells attached, to make the characteristic sound (some would say: noise). In their formal dances they may wield sticks, which they bang together, adding to the sound from the shoes and bells. The music is usually harmonicas, pipes and drums.

It is a very ancient pagan tradition. Elsewhere in Europe you may see some parts of it retained, usually involving dancing around the May Pole, but in few places is it so widespread as in England. Every city, town, village, and hamlet, it seems, has its own team of dedicated men who train throughout the year and perform at suitable festivities. The dedication is truly remarkable. Scholars have identified a common tradition, spreading across the globe and covering native American, Indian, and European dances, suggesting a very ancient Indo-European origin.

I emerged from a lane between lovely old houses and on to a little common which, I immediately saw, also functioned as a children's playground and an allotment garden. A large group of people was standing in the children's play area, surrounding the Morris Dancers.

“Funny,” I thought, “that's a lot of people who have arrived very early just to see the Morris Dancers practicing?” Suspecting that there was something more going on, I approached quickly. I spotted the dog collar on a middle-aged lady before I saw the man holding the large procession cross. I quickly joined the congregation, and somebody gave me two hymn books (regular plus supplement) and the text of the service.

It was a traditional Rogation Service that I had stumbled upon. Most places still celebrate Rogation Day, but it is a little more unusual to find the traditional outdoor service. It is of course the day when special prayers are said for the fields and for the farmers. The word “rogation” comes from middle-English “rogacion” meaning supplication, and that word in turn is derived from late Latin “rogatio”: questioning.

A traditional Rogation Service is held on one of the fields surrounding the village; I suppose the allotments are a reasonable substitute. Prayers are said for the land, for sun and rain and wind, and for the farmers and for a bountiful harvest. “Farmer, farmer, sow the seed / Up the field and down / God will make the golden corn / Grow where all is brown” sang we.

It is of course an ancient tradition, pre-dating Christianity by thousands of years, so it is not unreasonable to have Morris Dancers as part of the service. And we did have them, and they did dance, endowing, according to heathen beliefs, fertility on the land and blessings on the village. “Dear God, for the power of new life surging through our world, we bless and praise your holy name,” we prayed.

The minister announced that the Morris Dancers would be back next weekend for the traditional May Day dances. “But you have to get up early,” said the leader of the team, “because we start at six am!” Their dedication is remarkable, as is, it must be said, that of the villagers who did get up very early in the morning on a holiday, to see men dance around a stick.

The service next week would also be special, as they would follow another ancient tradition and mark the parish boundaries by walking them. In the old days this was how generation after generation learned where these boundaries lay, and it helped to maintain the village identity (as well as marking the actual boundary by a trail).

It was a splendid service, and it ended with a procession back to the village church. First the ceremonial cross, then the Morris Dancers, then the congregation, and lastly the minister. Back at the church I complemented one of the dancers.

“You are really very good,” I said, meaning every word. I am not a connoisseur of Morris Dancers, but these men really seemed to know their steps.

“And it worked!” he replied. “It stayed dry while we danced, not a drop of rain.”

Indeed, and pagan beliefs and rituals die hard, if ever, on this island. That is why I (sometimes) love it so much.

• Home
• Gallery
• Tutorials
• Travel stories
• Contact us