Morris Dancers

I was walking down the sidewalk in Brighton when I heard the jingle of bells. Yes, like jingle bells. But it’s May in England, so it wasn’t Santa. No, no, no. As I walked along the sound grew louder. I turned a corner and there they were — Morris dancers. In full regalia, congregated in front of a old Sussex pub, drinking beer, tuning their fiddles, and jingling.

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They were from Guernsey, and they knew their stuff. Beers down, they picked up their fiddles, accordions, guitars, drums and tambourines, and, jingle bells tied to their knees, they twirled and line-danced, flicked white hankerchiefs and bashed sticks in a centuries’ old English folk dance ritual hailing spring.

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The crowd grew, drawn by the music, and the shouts and growls of the forest monsters.

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Just a typical spring day in Merrie Olde Englande.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morris_dance

 

On a Marrakech Rooftop

When I was in Marrakech recently I stumbled upon a haven of calm amongst the teaming streets and alleys of the souks. Up on top of the small Musee de l’Art de Vivre Marrakech (I love the name — “The Museum of the Art of Marrakech Living” I found a secret place. All to myself. A cool breeze teased the leaves of the plants, and the muezzins’ calls echoed around the city for the afternoon prayer. I took out my trusty Nikon and had a play.

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It was so calm and peaceful up in my little aerie that only the setting sun stirred me to leave and head for home.

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