Quirky Traveller's Tales

Barry McCann explains the history of a northern tradition that dates back centuries and illustrates it with some of photos from this year’s celebrations.

Mayor of Preston in Guild Hall Procession

There is a saying in Lancashire that goes “Once every Preston Guild” which is probably unfamiliar to anyone outside the county. It actually refers to a special event that occurs once every generation in the north west city of Preston, 2012 being the latest in nearly a thousand years of staging.  There have been three Preston Guilds during my lifetime and, having missed the first two, I was determined to attend this one.

Preston Guild is a tradition that began in 1179, when Henry II granted the market town its first royal charter and established a Guild Merchant. The purpose was to licence local traders, craftsmen and merchants. Only Guild members, or Burgesses as they were known, were allowed to operate in the town. Throughout the year a wide range of festivities and celebrations are attended by thousands of people from the UK and beyond.

Folk dancers float in Preston Guild procession

Every several years or so the Guild Merchants reviewed the membership list to ensure it was up to date. Burgesses attended a public court and swore loyalty to the Mayor and the Guild Merchant. If  proved eligible, he would be granted renewed membership for the usual fee. These gatherings were infrequent and it was later decided they were only needed once in a generation. So, from 1542, the Guild was scheduled at every 20 years.

Preston Guild emblem – photo by Martin Evans

Over the centuries, the nature of the celebration has changed. Initially, it was traders and craftsmen parading in colourful costumes and banners with emblems of their trades. By the late 18^th Century, decorated platforms began to appear and led to the modern floats of today. Nowadays, modern businesses such as electronics industries, aircraft firms and mail order outlets play their part in the main trades event, while churches, schools and voluntary groups hold their own processions.

Alice in Wonderland

For the 1952 Guild (1942 having been skipped due to the war) a new tradition began with scrolls of friendship being sent to major cities in Canada, America, Australia and New Zealand to collect messages from Prestonian expats. These are returned and presented to the Mayor at the end of the opening ceremony. And in 1992, daughters of existing burgesses were finally admitted to the Guild  – just in time for the 21^st Century!

Stewardesses dancing in the street

The 2012 Preston Guild event has possibly been the most spectacular yet with thousands pouring into the city centre to enjoy the events. In addition to the traditional parades, the city’s Winckley Square became home to an international food festival, while a vintage fair was held in  Avenham Park This was also the venue for concerts given by The Human League, Jose Carreas and Katherine Jenkins. As the Mayor himself declared in his proclamation, Preston knows how to party!

Preston Guild procession

I’m so glad I made this one; see if you can make it for 2032 …

Barry McCann is a writer, editor and broadcaster, specialising in features and short stories of various genres. He is editor of Parnassus, the art & literature journal for MENSA International, and regularly appears as Folklore Correspondent on BBC Radio Cumbria. He has written on Seattle, Cumbria folklore and May Day revellry for The Quirky Traveller. Read more of his works on his blog Writing Without Tears and find him on Face Book.

Photo c/o thediamondjubilee.org

Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II looked up at her son and smiled, nodded to a gold-clad footman and stepped carefully into the 1902 open-topped State Landau.  Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall (who’d have thought it?) got in beside her and Prince Charles settled opposite.  Dark rugs were placed carefully across their laps and they set off on the Carriage Procession from Westminster Hall to Buckingham Palace.  For many people in the waiting crowds, this was the highlight of three days of glorious celebration.  Proud Guards stood tall in their gleaming uniforms, beautiful horses with bridles jingling carried bands playing stirring music.  Flags fluttered from buildings and in people’s hands everywhere.

So what if rain threatened? They’d already coped with the most tremendous downpour on the Sunday, when the heavens didn’t just open, but threw down every kind of rain and wind on the most historic river pageant held anywhere for over 300 years.  If the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh could manage to stand for over four hours aboard the ‘Spirit of Chartwell’ then nothing was going to stop the crowds from making the most of this magical occasion.

On that day the River Thames was filled with sea-going craft of every kind imaginable, from all around the British Isles and across the Commonwealth.  Now it was a river of people flowing along the streets of London, down the Mall to the front of Buckingham Palace.  The night before, singers and muscians from 60 years of the Queen’s reign had performed an ear-splittingly varied and vibrant concert, culminating in Madness singing ‘It Must be Love’ and ‘Our House’ on the Palace roof – how appropriate. The fireworks that ended the show were diamond-bright and glorious.

For many of us in this country and around the world, the Diamond Jubilee has been a wonderful opportunity to show our appreciation to the Queen who has been a steadfast, stoical presence for most of our lives.  Oh and, of course, an excuse to party – which, let’s face it we need to do in these somewhat austere times.  Like it or not, the monarchy and especially the Queen, are hard-wired into this country’s DNA.   I have always loved the pomp, circumstance and yes, quirkiness, of it all.

As a little girl, my grandmother used to show me pictures from a huge red and gold covered book called ‘England Under Victoria’, published in 1886. In the first chapter there’s an engraving of ten-year old Princess Victoria clasping a boa-feathered hat and looking wistful. Nana told me she was our Queen’s Great Great Grandmother, something I found very hard to believe.  For many years we watched the Service of Remembrance and the Trooping of the Colour on TV; these ceremonials became part of the more colourful fabric of home life.  I was at Dudley College of Education, training to be an English teacher, when the Queen visited on her Silver Jubilee tour in 1977. I can vaguely remember my boyfriend heaving me up in the air to catch a glimpse of her as she did a quick walkabout.

Over the Diamond Jubilee weekend I stayed in the Cotswolds.  The whole area seemed to be en fête.  We went into Bath for the day and it was lovely to see all the shops decked out in patriotic finery.  One of the busiest places was the Highgrove Shop, where expensive but deliciously crunchy biscuits nudge up to luxurious bath soap and garden implements for people with more money than sense.  Of course, we bought our souvenirs here – after all, that ornate tea caddy and mint tin have been given the Queen’s seal of approval –and that’s good enough for me.

The Thames River Pageant, the Jubilee Concert in front of Buckingham Palace, the Service of Thanksgiving at St Paul’s Cathedral, the State Carriage Procession and the Balcony appearance and flypast, are all events that we can share in as a nation and as individuals.  Street parties were packed with people determined not to let a bit or rain stop their fun.  Pubs, clubs and restaurants had patriotic food and drink, village greens had marquees tethered extra strong to resist the June winds and there was bunting, bunting everywhere.  For a short time, the Union Jack (can’t call it ‘Union Flag – not so personal) was reclaimed from the football fans and right wing jingoists so that ordinary people throughout the country could display their loyalty.

As well as taking part in various festivities including a Jubilee dinner and afternoon tea (delicious cakes) at Broadway village Jubilee Fair, I watched a lot of TV.  It was a great way to see all the events – in spite of some very poor BBC coverage, especially of the River Pageant – and keep dry. Shivering in sympathy on the river, singing along with Suggs at the concert, admiring  St Paul’s awesome setting during the Service of Thanksgiving, sharing photos and thoughts on Twitter and Face Book.  It all helped to connect and give a sense of common purpose and celebration.  It’s on occasions of magnificence and unrestrained exuberance like this that I am most delighted to be be British and so very appreciative of all that our royal heritage brings to this country.

What’s Easter all about?  As I arrange small colourful eggs in straw nestled within a wooden trug, the sounds of the Eucharist service from Manchester Cathedral tumble out of the radio; a beautiful voice celebrating Christ’s resurrection.  Teenage son struggles to wake up from a late night’s X-Box playing and can’t face any of his chocolate just yet.  The phone rings: my brother in Menorca calling to say Happy Easter.  It’s warm out there & he’s in his shorts, getting ready to go down to Mahon Port to see some people over for the holidays.  We chat about this and that; just touching base and keeping those family bonds going.

In the kitchen, making scotch pancakes with smokey bacon and maple syrup … seems like a good brunch on a lazy Easter Sunday.  For the first time for almost 20 years I’m NOT having family over for a traditional Sunday dinner (roast lamb & lemon tart) – recovering from flu and want to take it easy.  No-one seems to mind – the world keeps turning …

Text message from younger brother.  He lives in Southport and is having a day with his motorbike mates. We seldom meet up now but the love is still there and on high days and holidays we make sure we say hello.  Leave message on Aunty Beryl’s voice mail wishing her and Uncle John a Happy Easter.  Yesterday we went round to their place in Kendal for Simnel Cake & coffee.  As I’m not doing the dinner they are going out to a hotel overlooking Windermere for lunch with friends.

Remember Mum, who died 10 years ago and is still here in spirit and my son’s happy smile.  Think of  how Dad, gone 20 years now, used to get us Thornton’s eggs with our names etched out in curly icing …

The Archers babble away in the background mostly unnoticed – catching up on a week’s minutiae in Ambridge.  Love the familiarity of a fantasy world where the seasons  are still observed and real life rarely impinges.  Son decides we have to open all the egg boxes and line them up on the sideboard next to the Easter basket.  He phones his Dad and arranges to go round to help him in the garden.  Tomorrow all three of us will go for a walk, maybe to Arnside – don’t usually venture into the Lake District  on Bank Holiday weekends – too many people and anyway we have lots of places to explore right on our doorstep.

Now to get ready to go over to a friend’s house; she’s invited people round to celebrate the opening of her new photographic studio in her back garden. On the way will drop son off at his Dad’s and pick him up later …

And that’s what Easter is all about for us.  Spending time with people we care for, reconnecting with loved ones near and far, and a bit of chocolate indulgence.  Nothing major, nothing world-shattering but simple, important and a reminder that love is what binds us all together …