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- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Family & Friends
- Subject: Seasonal / Holidays
- Published: 10/22/2017
Bonfire Night.
Guy Fawkes (a fellow Yorkshire man) tried to blow up parliament in about 1605. Since then an effigy of him has been burnt across England on November 5th each year on bonfires in every place you can think of.
I have tried for many years now to burn down my old garage by pinning a Catherine Wheel to it. It is made from an old creosoted hen house and it should burn really well but the fireworks never leave a mark!
We usually light the village bonfire over the neighbouring farmer’s field about 7pm. The village youngsters have trudged round the village collecting any rubbish that will burn for yonks. This includes a scrap three piece suite for the Guy to sit on at the bonfire top.
This can be a poor time of year for drying washing and lighting bonfires however some supervised paraffin gets a good blaze going.
As the fire spits and cracks we move closer to warm up. We let off the fireworks. Some refuse to light and anxious parents try to stop youngsters attempting to relight them.
The larger rockets are left to the end and when they burst and fill the blackness with their special magic involuntary ooohs and aaaghs erupt.
The fire starts to lose its fierceness and poor old Guy and his three piece suite have been consumed.
The hot glowing centre of the remaining fire sends sparks and glowing particles high up into the black sky.
The locals gather round for warmth and one or two leave to take the roast potatoes from ovens at home down to the village hall.
After a respectful time we leave the fire and aim briskly through the night air with many torches sweeping round and picking out familiar bits in the all-encompassing blackness.
Inside all is noise and bustle, the children trying to spend all their pocket money at once.
Both side of the small hall are lined with trestle tables. We have a butcher who lives in the village slicing a hot leg of pork. He breaks off the crackling and puts a piece on your plate then slices a good half inch thick piece of steaming pork and dollops it onto a large white bread bun. Only fried bacon smells better and there is some further along.
Then the next trestles have sausages, homemade beef burgers, roast potatoes filled with melting butter and a slice of cheese.
Then comes the sweets. Toffee apples for children (and adults), iced sponge buns with a glace cherry on top and loads of flapjack and ginger biscuits.
The remaining trestles have Tombola (for village hall funds), a local who does wood carving and homemade soft toys.
The noise laughter and chatter roll along for another hour or so then it starts to dwindle.
A few cross the road to finish the night in the pub. Mums with children head home for bed.
There are only two street lights in the village and there are long dark stretches and the voices of the children and the waving of their torch beams begin to fade away.
We climb the hillside after them to home and looking down to our right can still see the glowing remains of the bonfire. It still has enough energy to send the occasional bright red dot high up into the cold night air.
Bonfire Night.(Ossie Durrans)
Bonfire Night.
Guy Fawkes (a fellow Yorkshire man) tried to blow up parliament in about 1605. Since then an effigy of him has been burnt across England on November 5th each year on bonfires in every place you can think of.
I have tried for many years now to burn down my old garage by pinning a Catherine Wheel to it. It is made from an old creosoted hen house and it should burn really well but the fireworks never leave a mark!
We usually light the village bonfire over the neighbouring farmer’s field about 7pm. The village youngsters have trudged round the village collecting any rubbish that will burn for yonks. This includes a scrap three piece suite for the Guy to sit on at the bonfire top.
This can be a poor time of year for drying washing and lighting bonfires however some supervised paraffin gets a good blaze going.
As the fire spits and cracks we move closer to warm up. We let off the fireworks. Some refuse to light and anxious parents try to stop youngsters attempting to relight them.
The larger rockets are left to the end and when they burst and fill the blackness with their special magic involuntary ooohs and aaaghs erupt.
The fire starts to lose its fierceness and poor old Guy and his three piece suite have been consumed.
The hot glowing centre of the remaining fire sends sparks and glowing particles high up into the black sky.
The locals gather round for warmth and one or two leave to take the roast potatoes from ovens at home down to the village hall.
After a respectful time we leave the fire and aim briskly through the night air with many torches sweeping round and picking out familiar bits in the all-encompassing blackness.
Inside all is noise and bustle, the children trying to spend all their pocket money at once.
Both side of the small hall are lined with trestle tables. We have a butcher who lives in the village slicing a hot leg of pork. He breaks off the crackling and puts a piece on your plate then slices a good half inch thick piece of steaming pork and dollops it onto a large white bread bun. Only fried bacon smells better and there is some further along.
Then the next trestles have sausages, homemade beef burgers, roast potatoes filled with melting butter and a slice of cheese.
Then comes the sweets. Toffee apples for children (and adults), iced sponge buns with a glace cherry on top and loads of flapjack and ginger biscuits.
The remaining trestles have Tombola (for village hall funds), a local who does wood carving and homemade soft toys.
The noise laughter and chatter roll along for another hour or so then it starts to dwindle.
A few cross the road to finish the night in the pub. Mums with children head home for bed.
There are only two street lights in the village and there are long dark stretches and the voices of the children and the waving of their torch beams begin to fade away.
We climb the hillside after them to home and looking down to our right can still see the glowing remains of the bonfire. It still has enough energy to send the occasional bright red dot high up into the cold night air.
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