Heading south from the big city I like to stop off in Stroud. Things are a bit different down here as we begin to encounter the bohemia of Bristol and the West Country. The People's Republic of Stroud is blazoned on t-shirts and promoted in shops which boast fair-trade goods and eco credentials. Alternative lifestyles are propounded and fiercely defended. Quite rightly this energy and sense of community may be the only saviour of the high streets and without it Stroud would be laid bare. Its easy to condescend and feel that the last bastions of community centre are fighting a lot battle against the triple headed gorgon of austerity, supermarket supremacists and public apathy. Which is why Stroud lifts the spirits with its farmers market and eagerness to fight the power and injustices of town planning. It is bang on trend for the vegan wave with charcoal infused bean pasties, kooky shops in the shambles, small enterprise with good intentions and even an organic hairdresser?! Long live the republic !
I'm also drawn by the best falafel in the West. Salivating down the M5 my first stop is always Mama Falafel or if this is too crowded a faster version on the market. This is fast food that delivers taste and sates the soul. The stall is a marvel of simplicity that inspires dreams of falafel futures.
One hot plate warms the moist flatbread almost nan like in consistency then a choice of four Ottolengiesque sauces from sweet mango to a hummus without tahini; apparently many customers aren't fond of the strong taste and prefer to have the choice of adding it as a sauce. I think I now agree and my impossible home made hummus adventures continue. Heaps of nutty, fruity salad and a variety of falafel carefully souped and defined by their origin. These are not the dry tasteless supermarket falafel but a revelation. I am waxing lyrical but thesis the food of the gods or Jesus at least. Like the mighty burrito, when the balance is right then the magic happens. Locals know their Mama and the shop is always packed. You get to add sweet pickles and everyone shouts upstairs when your order is ready establishing a bonhomie amongst the hungry hordes. Its the crack of Stroud and I went back for a second hit before I left town.
The wild west feel was heightened on by a convention of some outlaw troupes of Morris dancers. I heard talk amongst the vegans of racist bands of mummers on the loose around town. It was the talk of Mama Falafel as debate ranged about the ethics of blacking up. Unanimously the falafelists were enraged in a very English way, even threatening confrontation or a strong word. The younger crowd were just bemused that such a thing actually existed in 2019. I almost coughed up a jalapeño as a vision from England's glorious country traditions strode through Stroud. The oft misunderstood white man covered in boot polish to look like a black man. Oh I was definitely in another county now!
All I can say is its is a long tradition going back hundreds of years and is a performance art based on disguise. This Janus gathering was themed around the folk tradition of wassailing encouraging the orchards through the depths of winter through song and folk prayer. That was my take on the face off between gangs of dancers ranging from new age steam punk morris men to more traditional rural takes on the Morris theme in petticoats and lederhosen.. They came from all over the country and their devotion to this hobby was touching. Accordions, fiddles, whistles and drums beat the tune as sticks clacked and bells jostled. Real joy and pride was evident in continuing the English folk tradition of morris dancing and the more I watched the greater my appreciation grew. I was still unsure about the blacked up motley bunch and gave them a wide berth but the scene lifted my mood and I spent a happy hour entertained and inspired by mummers and wassailers as I bumbled.
One element of disguise or mummery was the figure of cattle or sheep as Lord of the Dance. This sheepy fellow stood proud on Stroud high street celebrating the heritage of this once woolly part of England. The Cotswolds made wool merchants rich across these mid shires as their wares headed straight to the docks of Gloucester and Bristol. I was off to Painswick to marvel at the honey hues of the merchant houses high up in the valley beyond Stroud.
