Imagine 500 villagers with flaming torches. Domesday Morris dance group amongst them wearing ‘tatters’ (white shirts and black trousers and boots with waistcoats with strips of cloth hanging loose, topped with hats covered in ivy and bird feathers.

Plus Penkhull brass band, and us, the Mystery Singers choir regaling the crowd with various Wassail songs.

We walked around the boundary of Penkhull and sang in front of the ancient ‘bloody’ apple tree halfway down Trent Valley road, then around to local pubs to sing a wassail to all of them. For the first time in ages I felt happy.