Scenery

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This is a papier mache hill I made out of willow withies covered in newspaper and glue. The idea was to depict the last ice age. I painted a couple of wolves in the distance. This was another mystery play a few years ago. Set in the area which then became Penkhull. It was about the way the village evolved and the town surrounding it. I don’t remember much about the play except it had Romans and Celts in it, then victorians and a riot. We seem to riot a lot in the plays!

I wonder what we will be doing next year.

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Eye don’t know…

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Something appeared on the cliffs above the village that night, but no one saw it till much later.

The wedding had gone well and the happy couple were now on their way to catch a plane to their honeymoon destination. The rest of the party were sleeping the evening off either in the hotels 6 guest rooms, or in the two bed and breakfasts in the old harbour.

Half of the village had been invited and were now dreaming of the festivities while the other half were either too young or too elderly to have gone.

A dark figure, about eight foot wide, was shambling along the path down from the cliff. It’s movements were jerky, like an accordion being played, several legs moved in a strange caterpillar like rhythm and gleaming eyes looked out in long rows along its sides.

Most peculiar of all was its gaping mouth. This was filled not with teeth, but with arm like protruberances which ended in long thin suckes. Each of about twenty arms could reach out of its mouth to either lift or pull objects. They were also able to grasp things and pull them inside the thing.

A feral cat was stalking a mouse as the strange being came round a corner of the pathway. The alien seized the cat with one of its suckers and pulled it into its mouth which snapped with an audible crunch as it closed.

As the light came again to the village open doors greeted the dawn. Most were torn from their hinges. Others wear ripped apart as if a chain saw had cut through them.

Of the villagers there was no sign, the guests who had come down from towns and cities were gone. There were strange gouged marks on the roadway leading to the harbour wall, but no sign of life. Even the sea birds had gone.

Only the lighthouse keeper further up the valley had seen something glowing and gleaming in the dark, but he was saying nothing.

(I seem to be writing more of these, I’m trying to work out how to describe things. To make up a story that is slightly different, not too derivative?) all writing and art copyright Christine Mallaband-Brown 2019.

Penkhull Wassail

 

There’s not many places in Britain where you can wander round with flaming torches (but no pitchforks). But today we did just that round Penkhull Village. From Penkhull village hall we walked down the road to a garden with an ancient apple tree. The Domesday Morris danced and poured cider over its roots, Wassailing (shouting Wassail) to bless it and get it to flourish in the coming year. Domesday Morris danced, the Clay choir, which I sing with, sang Wassailing songs such as ” The old Cornish Wassail” and “the Penkhull Wassail” ( written by Duncan Bourne). Penkhull village brass band and the Penkhull Ukelele band also played.

Once we had drunk warm cider down at the garden we walked back up the hill and on to the local pubs, the Marquis of Granby, the White Lion, which was closed for some reason. We then went to The Beehive pub on Honeywall which had laid on some sandwiches. Then back across the hill to the Terrace pub and up to the Greyhound pub and Manor Court ale House where we finished singing and dancing. The Morris group were brilliant with their decorated hats, bells and boots. When they start dancing their sticks fly and swirl and clash together in time with the musicĀ  So exciting to watch.

We went over to the village hall for hot soup. Some people stayed for a barndance, but as we were tired out we came home to get warm and have a hot coffee.

No monsters or zombies were affected by this Wassail.

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