WELLIE WANGING

     Some people might suppose the country to be dull and boring, and I say to them, you have not lived in Somerset in the summer where a  stream of festivals and fetes, gatherings and guests, ferret races and skittle alleys compete for your leisure time.

Wellie Wanging anyone?

     Posted signs announce the summer fairs or fetes hosted by local communities where neighbours come to play games, visit, eat and raise money for worthwhile causes. 
     There were two local  celebrations within walking distance to The Pink Cottage. The Butleigh fete was definitely geared to the more athletic minded with competitive sports like Skittles, Coconut Shy, Hook-a-Duck and Wellie Wanging.  Wellie Wanging is played by tossing a Wellie (Wellington Boot) as far as you can to eliminate all the other tossers.  The sport originated in the town of Upperthong in Holmfirth.  The World Welly Wanging Association is based in Upperthong to this day, and has issued a strict set of guidelines for the sport. 

... the Rolling Stones

The Hog Roast or....

     Our own local fete featured Ferret Racing, Skittles, and a Hog Roast.  We bought tickets fully intending to go, but an incredibly generous friend offered us passes to see the Rolling Stones and Jake Bugg at Hyde Park.  We had to choose.    

     Food and animals feature heavily in farming country and on July 5^th, there was a wine and cheese event at the town hall to celebrate the new kitchen.  On July 7th the church up the hill hosted a repeat of their very successful Pets and Parachutes event.  All manner of pets and people streamed up the road beside the Pink Cottage to the Sunday service.  Afterwards teddy bears and dolls were parachuted off the church tower for fun. 
     The last weekend of July brought The Lowland Games near Langport featuring Mud Wrestling and Wife Carrying.  Wife Carrying is a sport new to me.  Further investigation revealed the competition originated in Finland, and the current World Wife Carrying Champs are indeed, Finnish.  Husband wants to start practicing for next year and has warned me off the carbs.
     Everyone's on holiday in August so the pace slows down.  August 10th is our annual village show which will wrap up the season.  Awards are given for everything from the heaviest marrow to the ugliest vegetables.  We'll be there.

     Aside from local celebrations, there's loads of other things to do here.  We are close to a number of interesting tourist sites.  Glastonbury Abbey is a short bus ride away, and is a beautiful ruin for a summertime walk, thanks to Henry the VIII and his relentless bid for a divorce.  August 11th, another lady-killer, Brian Ferry plays at an outdoor concert at the Abbey, an end of summer event for locals after the mayhem that is the Glastonbury Festival.  

     We’re twenty minutes from Montacute House, a National Trust Elizabethan house built in 1598.  It's linked with the National Portrait Gallery so there’s a ton of art.  The house itself is amazing, but one  aspect of it struck me as extremely clever.  The Trust has come up with an ingenious way to prevent tourist bottoms from settling on antique chairs.  There are no signs.  There are no ropes.  Instead each chair and settee has a large thistle on it, so were a miscreant to lower their backside onto any furnishings they’d end up with a thistle up their bum.  Brilliant yet subtle. 
                 
                                                              Note the Thistles

Behind the Pink Cottage, next to the church, is a seventeen hundred year old Yew Tree.  People come from miles around to see it.  We had our first canine guest with owner, a few weeks ago.  As we cut though the church yard taking Lottie the black lab for a walk we were startled to find a circle of people standing around the tree, foreheads pressed into the bark, arms outstretched embracing its trunk. Some of them leaned back against it, eyes fluttering half-rolled back in sockets, still others gazed to the heavens; real life tree-huggers.  We tiptoed past.  They were oblivious to our rude intrusion.  We laughed derisively.  

    

     A week later, anyone passing the churchyard would have seen me standing, forehead pressed against bark, trying to feel the ancient vibrations of the yew, and draw energy from its seventeen hundred year old roots in a desperate bid for creative inspiration. Now I regularly take visitors up the hill to the tree for a little hugging.  Is it possible I've been here too long?