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After Jensen’s tender display, the next step was—rather hor-
rifyingly—to shoot the unsuspecting tree, albeit with blanks.
This, as the master of ceremonies explained, was to evict the
evil spirits (squatters rights and sleeping neighbors’ eardrums
be damned) and make way for the good spirits to swoop in.

Then, as the smoke cleared, the increasingly jocund crowd
concluded their courtship by serenading the leafy object of
their affections. “Old apple tree we wassail thee, and hoping
thou will bear hatfuls, capfuls, three bushel bagfulls—and a
little heap under the stairs!”

The rain was falling harder, but it hardly dampened our
spirits. For several hours more, we kicked up the hay-strewn
dance floor as the Wassail Blues Band, attired in dark suits,
sunglasses and de rigueur fedoras, regaled us with hip-
swiveling tunes like “Mustang Sally” and “In the Midnight
Hour.”

Surveying the weaving crowd, Bob Cork looked on with an
expression of amused benevolence. “Wassailing could be
considered an organic way to get rid of pests, as we couldn’t
find anyone who produces a spray to get rid of evil spirits,” he
quipped. “But most importantly, it’s about having a good time
and enjoying ourselves.”

If the success of that wassail was in any way proportionate
to the next morning’s hangover, I reckon it produced a most
abundant harvest. u
IF YOU GO

For more details on where you can attend a wassail next
January, visit www.nationaltrust.org.uk. For tourism and
travel information, see www.visitbritain.com and www.
visitengland.com.

Photos Copyright Amy Laughinghouse.

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