There’s just something about Morris dancers that brings out my English side (which tends to be quite diluted by my many travels). The bright colors, cheery smiles and simple country dances evoke echoes of a far simpler past.
Like the the Victorian book of hand illustrated poetry that presently adorns my bedside table they recall a rich heritage which so often lies buried beneath, hustle, bustle, cell phones and technology. It must be so for those of other lands also.
The gay rhythms and crash of the sticks beat to a slower time a life attuned to season and nature. A time morality was more straight forward, the world less complex.
The childlike naivety of the dance recalls memories of a time when I was young and love and courtship seemed more innocent and pure.
(Photos from my Easter in Weymouth)