Wassailin' Wannacott

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'What's on, bouy',

'Dunno Watson, what's on?'

'Well, I'll tell ee what's not on and that be the cider', Watson moaned. 'n'other thing, mother's cats gawn missin'.'

'Oh dear, she thinks the world of that cat', I sympathise.

'Bugger thik cat', Watson explodes, 'it be the cider I be frettin' about'.

It seemed that despite a bumper apple crop in Devonshire Watson's orchard was a bare as a badger's arse. This may well have something to do with the fact that during a breezy day in May he decided to spray some weed killer along the orchard hedge. This in itself may not have been a huge problem but he had used his tractor-mounted sprayer loaded with fine mist nozzles which meant not only did the weeds get sprayed but also the apple trees along with his beehives. Now you may think that weed killer could not effect the bees but Watson never cleans out his sprayer tank which was half full of insecticide. So there are two reasons why there were no apples from which he could press his annual cider harvest. This alone was traumatic enough for the old boy but also to add insult to injury the local inn had stopped selling the local cider in favour of the more trendy and less potent Irish brand that comes with ice cubes???

'Not a bliddy drap of any decent tack this side of Okey', Watson wailed.

'Fancy a pint of Magners?', the landlord taunted.

It was like lighting the fuse of a firework and standing back to see the ensuing explosive display.

'Naw', Watson bawled like a starving calf, 'If oi wan's 'n apple juice 'n ice I'll ask fur one, but seein' as you'm be an offrin' I'll 'ave a pint o' sherry'.

Landlord one, Watson, game set and expensive round. The old boy grabbed his amber pint and retired sulkily to the corner settle which meant two lads had to stop their game of darts., reason being the dartboard hangs down over the settle.

'Oi, cum ovver yer a while', Watson yells and pats the faded cushion that adorns the settle. 'You'm knaw a bit about tradishion dun't ee?'

'A bit', I reply suspiciously.

'I bin a thinkin', Watson affirmed, ' in the ole days they 'uld make sacrifices to the old gawds so as they 'ud get a bumper crop of apples, yes, Wasslin' it twer called'.

'Yeees', I replied nervously, 'it's actually called Wassailing, the word comes from the old Saxon language and it means 'you of good health'.

'Xactly', the old boy nodded, 'us needs to mak a sacrifice to git them bliddy apple trees 'ealthy, so us u'll go a wassailing'.

At this point the vicar walked in and must have only caught Watson's last word.

'Kind of you to enquire Watson', the vicar beamed, ' nothing's ailing me any more, I have managed to shake off the flu'.

Watson looked blankly at him, 'What be the ole vool on about? Bin at the cummunion vino callapso agin I 'spect'.

There was a minutes pause and a dangerously quizzical look came over the old mans face, his brown ploughed into serious deep furrows. You could see the cogs slowly turning, suddenly Watson's eyebrows shot up thus announcing some bright idea had come into his head. We all shook our heads slowly as like an open book his face relayed what was coming next.

'Yer, Vicar', Watson shrieked, ' us be gawing Wasslin and us be a gawing to make a sacrifice to the old gawds fur a good apple crop, do ee wan' a cum along an' add zum Christshun oomp to the prozeedin's?'

The old clergyman hurried off to the lounge bar muttering about pagans and witchcraft as he went.

'Take it that u'll be a knaw then', Watson retorted.

The following night Watson arrived at the inn with a sheaf of papers, apparently he had been doing some research on the, 'interweb' and had found out how to conduct a wassailing ceremony. For the next two hours we were regaled with countless wassailing songs as he went through his mound of paper sheet by sheet. Finally there was a solitary piece of paper left, this mercifully turned out to be a missing cat poster that he wife wanted putting up on the noticeboard.

'Still not found mother's cat then Watson', the landlord asked.

'Naw, and 'er be pretty pining vor un an awl', he grimly announced. 'er's 'ad thik moggy vur nigh on twinty year an' nivver a day's gawn by when it ain't bin zat beside 'er. I rekon 'er thinks more ov thik cat 'n 'er do I'.

Watson's mind soon turned to more pressing issues. One of the internet sites he had visited stated that the wassailing ceremony should be carried out on Old Christmas Eve which he took to be the 24th of December. Try as we might there was no way anyone was going to persuade him that Old Christmas Eve was in fact the 5th of January, so Christmas Eve was going to be Watson's wassailing ceremony. He had gone down the farmer's store to buy a supply of twelve bore cartridges and on the way back called into the local cider farm to but some, 'praper' cider for the toast. This must have galled him no end as it was admitting to his deadly rival that his own orchard had miserably failed him, hey ho, needs must.

Considering how for most folks Christmas Eve is a busy night there was quite a turn out at Watson's farm. There were even a couple of strangers who everybody presumed were down on holiday and had somehow got to hear of the event. At precisely seven of the clock Watson appeared with a tray full of brimming cider mugs and his trusty old shotgun, thinking about it, 'rusty' old shotgun would probably be a more accurate description. On his forehead was strapped with some gaffer tape an old bike lamp, apparently he had not memorised all the words and so needed some light to read them off.

The assembly moved from tree to tree and at every stop we all took huge gulps of cider, this was accompanied by Watson leaping around the trunks chanting the magical words whilst firing blast after shotgun blast into the branches. This had two effects, everybody was showered by masses of falling twigs, many of which landed in the cider jugs and several roosting birds were blown to smithereens, again bits of their bodies landing in the cider. At this point somebody tentatively asked whether blank cartridges were being used in the wassailing ceremony and were then met with numerous shoulders shrugging.

It took about six jugs of cider to get around the orchard which meant by the time the procession had reached the last tree many of the initiates were worse for wear, or in dartmoor parlance - zidered up. Nobody had seen the couple of strangers since spotting the husband throwing up in the hedge. Finally the last tree was about to be wassailed. With great solemnity Watson took the last two cartridges from his pocket and loaded the old shotgun. He began the tuneful chant:

'Here's to thee, old apple tree, Whence thou may'st bud'.

Bang, the first salvo peppered into the spindly branches.

'And whence thou may'st blow! And whence thou may'st bear apples enow'.

Bang, the second blast ripped into the middle of the tree, all of a sudden an ear splitting screech came from the branches above. This was then accompanied by a dull thud, several screams and then deathly silence. Watson moved around to where the 'thud' had landed and by the light of his old bike lamp he first saw the apparition of the strange lady splattered in blood. He then looked to the ground where the lamp beam picked out the bloody, pulped mess of what appeared to be a cat. Watson took a long draught from his cider jug.

'Aw bugger', he muttered, ' 'tis ole Nebuchadnezzar, what the 'ell be I gawing to tell mother?'

The old man stood with his head hung deep on his chest, the old bike lamp beam picking out his breath as he slowly exhaled. Everyone stood in solemn silence, each searching for words of comfort to give to what obviously was a deeply distraught pet owner. During times of grief somebody always states the obvious and this occasion was no exception.

'Oooh, looks like he wasn't using blanks then!'

Suddenly the old boy darted off into the night, afterall, moormen don't cry and he clearly wanted to hide his grief. However, a minute later he was soon back with his trusty Devon shovel in hand.

'If I buries un quickly, mother will nivver knaw I blasted ee out of thik tree', he triumphantly exclaimed, ' an' if ee buggers says nought as what 'appened 'er u'll think ee be still a missin'.

The following morning Watson's orchard looked something like no mans land in the First World War, all the apple trees has been blasted to bits, all that remained were the peppered trunks and a mound of freshly dug earth. Being Christmas Day all that was needed was a British and a German team playing football and it could well have been 1915.

It will be interesting to see what sort of apple crop Watson gets next year. In a way I hope it is not too good a one or else a new version of Dartmoor Wassailing will have been born which will mean it's not only Bonfire Night people have to keep their pets in.