Spanish timekeeping

Spain is a wonderful country.  I absolutely love the place and its inhabitants.  But my love for all things Spanish is equalled by the frustrations that arise in me whenever I am there.

Exhibit A: timekeeping.  I have always been fussy about timekeeping.  I could count the number of times I have been late for events on the fingers of one finger.  I am never late.  I don’t have a problem with other people being late as long as it is due to something outside their control, such as traffic or a train being delayed, or losing their keys or falling over en route.  But when somebody is late just because they couldn’t be bothered to get ready on time or because they wanted to look in the shops on the way, that’s when I get really angry.  Not outwardly angry, but angry in an internalised, very English way.  The kind of anger that will give me terrible blood pressure problems in my mid thirties, around the same time as I’ll be wondering why these outwardly angry southern Europeans are living so much longer than me.  I probably won’t even let you know I’m angry.  Instead I’ll insist that it’s fine and express it in another, wholly inappropriate, slightly passive aggressive way later on.  Anyway, one stereotype that does ring true is the Spanish tardiness.  True, Catalans are considered punctual when compared to Andalucians, but that is scarcely anything to be proud of.  In his book, Homage to Catalonia, George Orwell sums up in just a few sentences not only the Spanish approach to timekeeping, but also of the contradictions apparent even in that:

“In Spain nothing, from a meal to a battle, ever happens at the appointed time.  As a general rule, things happen too late, but just occasionally  - just so that you shan’t even be able to depend on their happening late – they happen too early.  A train which is due to leave at eight will normally leave at any time between nine and ten, but perhaps once a week, thanks to some private whim of the engine-driver, it leaves at half-past seven.  Such things can be a little trying.  In theory I rather admire the Spaniards for not sharing our Northern time-neurosis; but unfortunately I share it myself.”

My first few weeks living in Spain were stressful for me.  I must have spent hours waiting for other people and approximately 20 percent of my time was taken up trying to get the attention of waiters.  With time, you learn to deal with it.  The more of a fuss you make, the longer things will take and if you allow it to stress you, you have yourself to blame.  The culture in southern Europe is different.  Things take longer, so people just do a bit less.  Their lives tend to be a bit happier for that. 

We could learn from them.  Or just love the difference.

Mummers and Sons

What better way to blow away the Christmas cobwebs than a journey to a Somerset village to watch the annual Mummers Play?  It is perhaps thanks to the various elemental forces in play that the sun shines as we leave our car in picturesque North Curry to head towards the homely and perfectly formed village green.  No danger here of old English traditions going out of fashion as it seems like most of the inhabitants of the village have turned up in eager anticipation of this ‘ancient’ spectacle.

Although I was brought up deep in the westcountry, I currently reside in a part of London where I share a street with more people than live in the whole of North Curry.  So this kind of activity is a fairly alien sight to me, and even more so for my wife (not from these here parts).  It’s impossible to avoid thoughts of the eerie 70’s masterpiece, The Wicker Man, as the troupe of actors processes towards the makeshift stage area playing haunting flutes and other assorted instruments, no doubt made many years ago from discarded sections of unfortunate local animals.

The language of the Mummers play is old, but understandable.  The audience, including many children, certainly have no difficulty in comprehending what is going on.  The play itself tells us the story of how St George, fresh back from his exploits overseas, attempts to slay the dark knight.  He loses the battle and St George’s mother calls upon a quack to revive her fallen son.  Despite some terrible early attempts, the quack (played ably and somewhat appropriately by the local village doctor) eventually manages to bring St George back to life, whereupon he slays the dark knight and natural order is restored once again.  It soon becomes clear, even without explanatory notes, that the play is a thinly veiled allegory for the story of the seasons.  St George, clad in resplendent white, represents the summertime, while the dark knight represents the winter.  The fact that the play is repeated each midwinter at the same time in the same place echoes the cyclical nature of the seasons.  This performance also serves as a helpful reminder to us on one of the shortest days of the year that before long we will be back in the sunshine, revelling in those long days.

The Mummers play in its current form stretches back to the 18^th century, but it has existed in some way since medieval times.  There is even a claim made in the introduction that “This is what there was before there was Christmas”, quite a refreshing idea in a world where people often lament that we are losing the real spirit of Christmas.  I don’t think the originators of this performance are being deliberately anti religious in saying what they say, but they are suggesting that there has always been some kind of festival at this time of year and it seems to make sense that the Christian concept of Christmas has attached itself to the latter parts of December.  We always talk of Christmas being a time for hope but within a week of the event we tend to sink quickly into the depression of January.  The Mummers play provides us with a far more positive message – the dark knight of winter has been slain and summer is once again in the ascendency.  The days are starting to get longer even though it is probably a little bit early to be whipping out the knotted hankies.  All that said, there is very little evidence that the Mummers play existed in any format before Christanity, as Peter Millington explains far better and in more detail than I ever could here:

 http://freespace.virgin.net/peter.millington1/Mystery_History.htm

I found it extremely interesting to see the depictions of good and evil, including a version of evil in the dark knight that would be unlikely to be accepted by modern day race and equality groups.  What I found most refreshing, however, was how engaged the local community was to a performance that on the surface bore no resemblance to the modern world.  Of course it was performed in a rural society, for whom tradition is important, but it’s not like these people are backward or misguided.  There is a lack of cynicism in seeing the Mummers play, as well as other local festivities in this area, such as the Wassailing festival (which I have not yet witnessed) and the Bridgwater Carnival (which I certainly have) that would be as welcome as it would be unlikely on my North London street.  

Those elemental forces that kept the weather unseasonably good throughout the performance did what was asked of them, and no more.  Almost as soon as the performance ended, the clouds darkened and the heavens opened, soaking everybody present as they decamped to the village pub.  Nobody seemed to mind a great deal though, and I’m sure they will all be back to watch the play again next year and for many more years after that.

The Mummers play is performed every Boxing Day on the North Curry village green at 1pm (and also at one other nearby village at midday).  More information can be found at the address below. 

http://www.fromthegreenwood.com/Mummers/Mummers%20Play.htm