Summertime ( VILLAGE TALES EP. 48 )

Spring and summer heralds the season for garden parties and open air events, but with our weather, success or failure is in the lap of the Gods. Some can afford to take no chances but others risk it and the results can be a calamity or great fun, and divide the village forever.

In like a lion and out like a lamb, goes the saying regarding June, supposedly the first month of Summer. ‘Ne’r cast a clout till May’s out’, is another which supposes overnight on the 31st a revolution takes place in the weather. Stranger things have happened, which is what makes our weather a popular topic for conversation. Taylor Bradford, who with his wife ‘Babs’ moved into the Old Mill, is a Californian and found the British pre-occupation with the weather baffling, until he realised you could hardly tell from one day to the next what it was going to do. Not something he’d experienced in L.A.

I look forward like most people, to warmer weather and longer days, but I nearly always forget, so does everything else. The longer days are soon taken up with keeping the vegetation from creeping over the threshold and up the stairs. It’s seldom that this change in the season brings about any predictability, nevertheless spring fairs and summer fetes, garden parties and barbecues get planned every year and the game of fair-weather bagatelle is played with the traditional British caveat of, ‘If wet, in the village hall’. 

Paul at the shop, always having to keep an eye on the weather, advised me of a recognised system of weather forecasting called ‘Persistance’.

‘Tomorrow’s weather will be similar to today’s’.

That’s it, and he tells me its about seventy percent accurate. If you’re organising an outside do, at 70 percent, you might still need the village hall option.

Lady Blythe takes no chances with the wedding receptions up at the Hall. A huge marquee on the lawn covers the dance floor and those now obligatory circular tables. No sudden downpour is going to drench, not only the bride, groom and guests, but what seems a Glastonbury amount of equipment for the entertainment. They can afford to play safe, some of us are prepared to take a risk.

You may remember Rowland Cartwright up at Finches. A few summers ago during what was forecast to be a long, stable heat wave, he decided to celebrate his retrospective in Bristol by having a garden party cum mini festival at his home. Fifty or sixty people turned up on the Friday night to pitch their tents. Some, unlike Rowland and others who’d had more than a skin-full on arrival, were woken Saturday morning by the sound of torrential rain on nylon. The heavier drinkers missed it entirely not appearing until mid afternoon, just in time for a more prolonged spell. Fortunately Rowland’s converted barn was large enough to accommodate those unable to leave. The fire pit was covered hoping it might be useable later, some still thinking that a barmy evening was a possibility although the sky indicated otherwise. 

Roland by late afternoon had still not surfaced. Anyone who was sober enough to find their own vehicle had loaded their dripping tents and soggy belongings, and left. The dozen or so inebriates that remained began getting hungry and without Rowland it seemed the only way to solve their problem was to move the barbecue into the shelter of the garage. They had by then become immune to the rain, but the barbecue had not. Rowland had long been banned from driving so his father’s Lancia had been in the garage unused for many years and it was pushed out to make room for the the ‘Barby’. I have described previously that Finches is half way up a hill to the north of the village. The Lancia once off the flat took it into its mind to creep un-noticed down the drive, eventually picking up enough speed to wedge itself into the bank on the opposite side of the lane narrowly missing a woman cyclist whose partner had sprinted ahead leaving her struggling to make progress. The sudden appearance to her side of a 1967 Lancia Fulvia, had the effect of being the last straw. Chucking her bike into the hedgerow she went into Finches to report the blockage where she was invited to stay while it was sorted out. It never was, not at least until the following day. By that time, Catherine the cyclist, had apparently departed her life of fitness and temperance and embarked upon a new life with one of Rowland’s guests. Her cyclist partner and ex-husband to be, was not seen then or ever since, at least by anyone from the village. Isn’t is amazing how from such minor events whole lives can be changed and you can still blame the weather.

Incidentally if you ever saw the press coverage of Rowland Cartwright’s Retrospective you may have noticed The Guardian printed a photo of Rowland turned mistakenly through ninety degrees giving the impression Rowland was on his side. The head of Guardian Arts  apologised profusely to his sister, Marion also Rowland’s agent, but she said it was a stroke of genius and more accurately reflected her brother’s usual orientation.

If there’s any British optimism in the face of adversity and any hopeless situation, it must be primarily due to our weather. The belief that, the covers will come off shortly and play will resume, irrespective of the clouds becoming darker and the lighting more violent, the conviction that the very dark cloud heading our way, isn’t, or for the forthcoming garden party we are, ‘owed a nice weekend’. By whom and for what no one knows but it is presumed because we are polite and view queuing as a form of religion.

A less riotous affair was the Queen’s Birthday during 2016. The weather then was typically April and predictably unpredictable. There are several fervent Royalists in or around the village who miss no opportunity to raise the flag and celebrate a birth, mourn a death, or use any birthday to advertise their royal credentials. There are also a few outspoken republicans who would love to see a guillotine set up in the village square and for all I know even now are practising their knitting. However such is the passion for a good knees up, all is put aside for a celebration, no matter who’s birthday it is, a member of the royal family, Karl Marx, or even Groucho. 

For the event a field was lent by farmer Todber adjacent to which power and water could be supplied. There can never be enough bunting, and the modern fashion is for it to be cut from old curtains, frocks, anything colourful. This didn’t go down well with the staunch royalists who insisted on red white and blue. Compliance was thought to have been agreed when a box of red bunting arrived with the promise of blue and white to follow. This was a crafty ruse by, amongst others Milton Peacock, who were attempting to smuggle in more red than anything else so as to represent their leftist inclination. The bunting battles continued until the morning of the celebration but no sooner had the vicar, the one we borrow from Shipston, stood up to declare the event open, the heavens opened too. Some of the less Christian of those gathered cheered and thought God’s sense of humour was almost enough to make them convert. As they had nothing to convert from, the vicar said, 

‘It was a demonstration of their lack of religious knowledge’

By that time everyone was in the tent sheltering, the PA system had blown a fuse, and the vicars words were drowned in the flood. 

A Major from Westmill had borrowed the tent from the T A. it was more camouflage than waterproof, rain not being expected, and probably not allowed on a Queen’s birthday. The bar, which comprised several trestles lined up outside the tent, had placed at regular intervals cardboard boxes, known as polypins, inside which were plastic bags of beer, lager, cider and something else. Cardboard being what it is, and no respecter of royalty, began to disintegrate, allowing the plastic bag to burst out forming an unidentifiable, pillow shaped, alcohol filled balloon. The left wingers full of ‘schadenfreude’, not knowing what drink each bag contained, celebrated the catastrophe by betting on which was which, then trying each. They were looked upon in disgust by others, dressed as befits a royal occasion, sheltering wherever they could from the steady downpour.

In the tent, the band made a bold attempt at playing but when the electrical supply shorted out and moisture threatened not only amplifiers but instruments, they decided to pack up and join the lefties in ‘guessing the beverage’.

Whether it was all good fun, or a shameful display, still divides the village.

We curse the weather and for some, it’s never the right sort, but it is what it is and you’ve got enjoy it, rain or shine.

Dave has run all sorts of events from the pub, and his motto is,

‘Don’t have plans, have options!’

Because, he says that if you want to make the Gods laugh, make a plan.

Listen to Village Tales and other short stories from the HONKEYMOON CAFE

 on Spotify, Anchor FM, Apple Podcasts, RadioPublic, Pocket Casts, 

Google Podcasts, Breaker and other platforms. 

Written and read by Barkley Johnson.