Remember, remember

My kids may be in their thirties, but they have never been too old to don wellies and celebrate Guy Fawkes night with me ... and happily this year, my Grandson was able to join us for the first time too! 

Watching little Toby wrapped safely in my son's arms, gazing at the sky with smiles and wide-eyed wonder, was a very special treat for me. Sharing traditions with my closest family has always been important.  Thanks kids, for always remembering and never failing to make time.

There is always a moment on Guy Fawkes night, when an especially spectacular firework illuminates the night sky and if I listen hard enough, I can almost hear my Dad's voice over the fizz and crackle.  He would have loved sharing fireworks with his Grandchildren and Great Grandchildren ... he always did enjoy a good Bonfire Night celebration.

Remember, remember, the 5th of November.

Never forgotten Dad xxx

A fig for ol Guy Fawkes?

Have you ever wondered why, more than four hundred years on, we still gather together to celebrate Guy Fawkes night?  Watching the night sky illuminate with gunpowder sparkle in the name of someone who way back in 1604 plotted to bring down the Government of the day, could be construed as a little odd by those outside the UK, yet this tradition is so much part of our heritage, we don wellies and warm coats every November to stand in a muddy fields and stare up at the night sky ...

I can't pretend to give a fig for old Guy Fawkes and his gunpowder plot; in truth he's little more than a shady character in a childhood story to me and in these days of economic belt tightening, it does seem rather extravagant to blast a fortune's worth of fireworks into the sky on his behalf.  That said,  there is undoubtedly something entrancing about watching the sky blaze with colour on a dark November night ... I think it's a little bit magical.  It reminds me of family gatherings in the garden at home with my Dad when we were kids, rockets whizzing at alarming angles, Roman Candles spluttering half heartedly and erratic Catherine Wheels never quite managing to spin smoothly much to our poor Dad's frustration!  No, for me Guy Fawkes night isn't about a dusty history book conspiracy character who lived centuries ago, it's simply about sharing some magic with my kids, big as they now are!

My lot!

And I love that they still humour me with this each year - thanks kids!

So for any curious overseas readers, now you know we're not all crazy here in the UK, we just enjoy the opportunity to gaze at the night sky, reminisce a little, dream a little and above all, share the sparkle with our kids ... in fact, ol' Guy Fawkes has very little to do with anything these days!

Remember, Remember ...

Huntley & Palmer biscuit tins from Christmasses past, packed full of assorted fireworks.  Hats, scarves, gloves, toes snug in wellies, sparklers ... our names momentarily glowing in the air.  Orange flames licking towards a starry night sky.  A saggy, baggy, newspaper guy dressed in Dad's old trousers, flakes of grey ash twirling on a November breeze.  Dad bent double at the bottom of the garden reaching for reluctant touch papers ... rockets blasting unpredictably from milk bottles sunk into flower beds, Catherine wheels flaring on fence posts, Roman candles fizzling ... girlish squeals, eyes bright. 

As kids we loved Guy Fawkes night. 

Stuart and I wrapped up warmly on Saturday, then stepped out into the night  with my kids and Stuart's grandson, for a clomp down the road to watch Allington's community firework display.  We stopped at Humphrey's fish 'n chip shop along the way to warm ourselves with tasty battered sausages and fresh-cooked chips, then joined the local crowds in celebrating Guy Fawkes' night in traditional style.

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,

The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,

I know of no reason

Why Gunpowder Treason

Should ever be forgot.

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, t'was his intent

To blow up King and Parli'ment.

Three-score barrels of powder below

To prove old England's overthrow;

By God's providence he was catch'd

With a dark lantern and burning match.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!

I know we're experiencing challenging economic times globally, but sharing tradition binds families together and for me, that's what Guy Fawkes Night is truly all about.

If you would like to learn more about Guy Fawkes, please visit the link below:

Guy Fawkes

Remember, Remember the 5th of November!

Christmas is clearly on the horizon now, but before I embrace the tinsel bedecked festivities, there's one more traditional celebration to honour - Guy Fawkes Night!  I can't imagine how our overseas friends view the UK celebrating the 1605 Gunpowder plot, which was designed to bring down our monarchy all those centuries ago, but such traditions are what make a country unique, don't you think?!

I have loved to see the fireworks each November 5th since I was a little girl living in Titchfield, back in the early 70's; Titchfield is an ancient village in Hampshire and every year since the early 1800's has celebrated Guy Fawkes Night with a spectacular carnival which my sisters and I always enjoyed when we were kids.  This year Stuart and I walked with my kids and their partners to our local community display in Allington ...

My daughter and her boyfriend

My son and his girlfriend

... big as they are now, they still enjoy wrapping up warmly on Bonfire Night to 'ooh' and 'ahh' as fireworks explode across the night sky!

Traditional British poem

Remember, remember, the 5th of November

The Gunpowder Treason and plot;
I know of no reason why Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes,
'Twas his intent.
To blow up the King and the Parliament.
Three score barrels of powder below,
Poor old England to overthrow.

By God's providence he was catch'd,
With a dark lantern and burning match
Holloa boys, Holloa boys, let the bells ring
Holloa boys, Holloa boys, God save the King!

Hip hip Hoorah!
Hip hip Hoorah!

A penny loaf to feed ol' Pope,
A farthing cheese to choke him.
A pint of beer to rinse it down,
A faggot of sticks to burn him.

Burn him in a tub of tar.
Burn him like a blazing star.
Burn his body from his head,
Then we'll say: ol' Pope is dead.