Prologue
Upton St Nicholas is proud of its annual festival and rightly so. Villagers spend much of the year preparing costumes and decorating floats, crafting gifts and rehearsing music. Logistics preoccupy the council from September onwards and it attracts onlookers from as far as Barnstaple, Plymouth and Taunton. The village green is closed off for the day so pedestrians can wander amongst the mulled wine stalls, browse original paintings or patchwork quilts, sample homemade jams and pickles and enjoy the entertainment. Jugglers and fire-eaters wander the green displaying their skills, leaving children wide-eyed and agape. Morris dancers jump and caper, waving handkerchiefs and rapping their wooden sticks, each movement accompanied by the tinkle of bells around their knees. If it snows, as it often does in early December, the festive charm is complete.
At no particular signal, the crowds spread along the road, each spectator seeking an unimpeded vantage point to observe the main event; the procession.
Ask one of the locals what it is all about and you’ll get a different story each time. The majority agree the old fella in the hat and purple cloak is Saint Nicholas, or Archie the wood merchant in a fake beard, if you want the truth. Yet no such consensus can be found on whose patron saint he might be. Children, say some. Sailors, argue others. Heads shake and insist he is the champion of the poor. Claims are made with some vehemence for prisoners, pawnbrokers and virgins.
Whoever he represents, the saint sits high on a golden throne atop a tractor decorated with painted canvas as a mediaeval vessel. He wears a bishop’s red mitre and holds three golden bags into which he regularly dips and scatters gold (chocolate) coins to the accompanying children and watching crowd. The audience are at liberty to consume theirs immediately with steaming paper cups of coffee. St Nicholas’s young escorts must wait, stuffing their pockets until they have completed the carol singing.
In the wake of the saint’s disguised Massey-Fergusson capers a more alarming figure. Dressed in a brown monk’s habit with hood and black beard, he has neither boat nor tractor. On foot, he has licence to run at passers-by as if to snatch their chocolate coins or even their children. Shrieks and squeals of pretend fear accompany the sinister creature, whose soot-smudged face is half hidden by folds of brown cloth.
That is where the Christian theme tails away, as the next section of the parade takes on a pagan feel. Forest folk wassail past wearing antlers or ivy head-dresses, carrying holly branches and mistletoe, and cups of spicy cider. Towering over them plods a handsome grey Percheron wearing a festive wreath as horse collar and wicker panniers over his withers. The horse bears a pretty red-headed girl in a white dress, silvery cloak and ornate crown. She reaches into the panniers and throws gifts to the smiling faces lining the pavement. Tied bundles of lavender or cinnamon sticks, ears of wheat or small apples. Catch her eye and she might gently bowl you an orange studded with cloves. The folk musicians following the mighty horse play jigs on flutes, fiddles, guitars and timpani, in a lively rhythm to get cold feet stamping.
For years, people have been telling you it’s worth the trip. They’re not wrong. You find yourself beaming at the carollers and bouncing on your heels, feeling right at home.
A young man to your right claps in time to the rhythm, nodding in approval as the auburn-haired nymph and her steed pass.
“What’s she got to do with St Nicholas?” you ask, lifting your voice over the noise.
His gaze remains fixed ahead and for a moment you think he hasn’t heard. Then he speaks, his voice accented with the Devon twang. “Nothin’. That’s The Winter Queen. We honour her before the solstice, offer her gifts and ask her to be kind.”
“She doesn’t have a festival of her own?”
A woman replies, “She used to. A long time ago.” Her features, an older version of the man’s, identify her as his mother. But where his jaw is stern, her face is softened by a kind smile. “We’ve always had the St Nicholas parade on the sixth of December, or the first Saturday afterwards. The pagan festival of Yule would be on the twenty-first, but times have changed. Now everyone is in thrall to the commercialism of Christmas.” She sighs. “So the village celebrates its name day by honouring St Nicholas and showing our respect for The Winter Queen together.”
“I see. She’s very pretty.”
Under his thick black brow, the man’s eyes assess the back of the white-clad figure on the horse. “The prettiest girl in the village plays The Winter Queen. We vote on it. First time in years it’s gone to someone new.” He flushes, as if he has said too much, and nudges his mother. Time to leave. She smiles a goodbye and follows him into the crowd, blending into green-grey-brown shades of country jackets and stone walls.
The procession continues out of the green, past the post office and turns into the main street, the music lilting through the brisk December air. You follow them as far as the pub then leave the villagers to their eclectic celebrations and head back to the green to browse the stalls and seek some hot chocolate.
You take a left and find yourself walking along a row of semi-detached cottages, many of whose windows are lit with festive lights and doors hung with holly wreaths. Deep in admiration for the picturesque nature of this place, it takes you a minute to realise you are walking away from the village green and further from your car. You stop to get your bearings. Clouds pass over the sun and the frosty blue sky of the afternoon turns gunmetal grey.
You turn around in the quiet street and a flicker of movement makes you look up. A gasp escapes you. There in the window, pressed up against the glass, is a face. Twisted and ugly as a gargoyle, it is contorted with rage, all directed at you. A bare-chested man is mouthing words you cannot hear, words that must be violent and filthy. He scratches at the window as if he wants to gouge out your eyes.
You hurry back to your car, shaken and chilled to your bones. The streets no longer seem charming and joyous, but slushy and grey. You remind yourself of how tourists are detested by many people living in beauty spots. Grockles, they call people like you. You are not welcome here. Time to go, far from this toxic place.
Hot chocolate forgotten, you drive away from Upton St Nicholas. You doubt you will ever return.
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