Blood Month
Not that I claim credit for getting out of bed on a cold Sunday morning to attend a Remembrance ceremony, I only do it because of my sons. The Scout and Guide movements provide virtually the whole of the uniformed contingent in Montgomery, our Ruritanian former county town. A few dozen townsfolk still parade, from the fine Town Hall to the large medieval parish church, led by a blue-coated town crier and the mayor in gold chain and fur-trimmed scarlet gown - yet with such a non-militaristic spirit as to encompass the laying of an alternative lilac wreath.
After the church bit, the police stop the traffic and we gather around the modest war memorial for the simple, unchanging ceremony. I always need a hanky. And I’m always struck by the pathos of this small sad huddle of people, heads bowed, against a vast sweeping background of sky, hills and valleys. We humans bring this suffering on ourselves while the forces of nature are quite oblivious.
Attending the wreath-laying ceremony has become an important annual ritual for me, perhaps the most fixed of any. The season has got me thinking about the origins of rituals and then moonlightmead reminded me of one of my favourite books, The Stations of the Sun. A History of the Ritual Year in Britain by Ronald Hutton of Bristol University. So...
‘Blod-monath’, Bede had called November. begins Hutton, on this time of year.
Before the agrarian revolution, around the middle of November was the time to slaughter livestock that could not be kept through the winter. Hence it was associated with feasting on fresh meat, and work on preserving the rest. In medieval Britain this season was Martinmas, from the feast of St Martin on 11 November.
St Martin must be one of the more attractive saints from late Antiquity, particularly associated with France, where he was bishop of Tours, and with soldiering, having fought in the Roman army before turning to a religious life, now interpreted as becoming a conscientious objector.
The armistice that ended World War I was signed on St Martin’s day - connecting again (an end of) massive slaughter and bloodletting with celebration and pause for reflection.
After the church bit, the police stop the traffic and we gather around the modest war memorial for the simple, unchanging ceremony. I always need a hanky. And I’m always struck by the pathos of this small sad huddle of people, heads bowed, against a vast sweeping background of sky, hills and valleys. We humans bring this suffering on ourselves while the forces of nature are quite oblivious.
Attending the wreath-laying ceremony has become an important annual ritual for me, perhaps the most fixed of any. The season has got me thinking about the origins of rituals and then moonlightmead reminded me of one of my favourite books, The Stations of the Sun. A History of the Ritual Year in Britain by Ronald Hutton of Bristol University. So...
‘Blod-monath’, Bede had called November. begins Hutton, on this time of year.
Before the agrarian revolution, around the middle of November was the time to slaughter livestock that could not be kept through the winter. Hence it was associated with feasting on fresh meat, and work on preserving the rest. In medieval Britain this season was Martinmas, from the feast of St Martin on 11 November.
St Martin must be one of the more attractive saints from late Antiquity, particularly associated with France, where he was bishop of Tours, and with soldiering, having fought in the Roman army before turning to a religious life, now interpreted as becoming a conscientious objector.
The armistice that ended World War I was signed on St Martin’s day - connecting again (an end of) massive slaughter and bloodletting with celebration and pause for reflection.