It’s a cold but still night as we walk up the road. The opening call of “toowoo” from a tawny owl conversation reaches us from the woods beside. The clear sky is lit by a crescent moon, and, illuminated by Earthshine, the shadowy full circle of the moon is visible too. With rare celestial alignment, Venus appears brightly, just above the moon.
We join a group of villagers in procession towards the community orchard, for the annual wassail, beating pots and pans as we go. It’s noisy and liberatingly peculiar.
Candles lead us to a chosen apple tree, usually the oldest in the orchard. It’s decorated in tinsel, which may be tawdry by day, but now it’s subtly sparkling in the moonlight. To start the ceremony, cider is sprinkled around its roots. The hullaballoo continues, for we must wake the trees from slumber and ward off bad spirits to ensure a good harvest.
The trees here are a mix of heritage Norfolk apples, such as the Harling Hero and the Norfolk Royal. Some varieties date back to the 1500s and many are under threat of being lost.
Wassailing has pagan roots and has taken place for many centuries. The word “wassail” is from the Old English “was hál” which means “be hale”, or “good health”. It is traditionally held on Twelfth Night, an occasion of revelry, but nowadays any time from late December to February will do.
Next, we falteringly sing the wassail songs: “Wassail! wassail! all over the town / Our toast it is white and our ale it is brown” and “Old apple tree we wassail thee”. We finish with a mug of warm spiced cider or apple juice, which once would have been drunk from a wooden wassailing bowl.
The wassail is an anachronism, a bit like dressing in period costume. After all, we are not dependent on this crop for our livelihoods nor even our cider. Yet it means something. It’s a small nod in the dark to our roots and natural heritage. A raised cup to a shared love of this small rural village. Wassailing means that biting into a tart-sweet apple in late summer will be even more delicious.
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