"Perambulations" or processions, for intercession for ruined fields, freedom from plague and so on, were introduced to England in the eighth and ninth centuries, as part of the Christian Liturgy. They were fertility rites, in the sense of fervently praying not to starve to death come harvest time. The Lord of Dedswell and Papworth likes to keep up the tradition: in The 1999 parade was a short one. In 2000, he decided to beat the bounds of Send parish. Actually, the route was only about half of the bounds, which, in the event, was just as well

There is no evidence linking morris dancers with what people normally mean by paganism. The earliest records date from middle of the fifteenth century and mentions of "paganism" which date from the reformation are almost always references to Catholicism. There is evidence, though, to link the morris firmly with Rogationtide and Bannering. In the Clee Hills, for example, a consistory court record shows morris dancers being tried for blasphemy - they paraded the church altar-cloth because they had left their banner behind. Rogationtide has its roots in pre-Christian festivals, but the Colonel invites dancers because he likes them, not from any belief in pagan origins.

The rite of blessing the crops was regulated by the council of Cloveshoo in 747. It may have replaced an earlier Saxon festival, but there is in any case a clear pagan progenitor in the Roman "Ambarvalia", where relics and banners were paraded. Bannering and "Gang Days" (from the sense of "going round") were increasingly a part of the community until the Restoration, at which point they became institutionalised and suffered a decline. Since the Second World War, however, there has been a resurgence of interest by people like "The Colonel". In some places beating the bounds is taken to great lengths. At Send in 2000, this was unintentionally the case.

A happy bunch of walkers assembled at Croxteth hall, Jackstraws performed a dance and then led the procession to the foot of the road - a distance of almost a hundred yards out of the four mile plus journey. The next part of the bounds is along a main road, so walkers, banners, dancers and musicians formed single file and perambulated. It was at the point where the procession entered its first bona fide field that the problems began. The dancers danced. "Shooting" is not a rain dance, but it might as well have been. There is a certain kudos to having the Lord of Dedswell and Papworth hold an umbrella for you whilst you play, but somewhat less when you are suddenly standing in three inches of water. Most of the walkers had waterproof coats and boots. The dancers and musicians had smocks and waistcoats, with dainty footwear.

Colonel: "I'm surprised there aren't more dogs this year."
 
Me: "I'm sorry, sir, I must have misheard you. I thought you said you were surprised there aren't more ducks."

I think it was hysteria. The rain did not ease off until almost halfway, by which time I was beginning to find my trousers rather more constricting than when dry. Stiles became difficult, something of a drawback because there were a great number of them on the route. I wasn't the only one to suffer: numerous banners, staves, stick trolleys and an enormous accordion had to negotiate stiles, barbed wire, farm gates whose keys have long since been lost...

Thus it was with some relief that the New Inn was finally sighted. I'd like to thank the staff for spin-drying my waistcoat - this was about as effective as the Colonel's umbrella had been earlier, but nonetheless appreciated. All stave walks I've seen pictures of have the walkers lined up outside the pub in their Sunday best. This was once Jackstraws' Sunday Best: as you survey the damage, remember that this is only half-way.

There was meant to be a boat for the musicians. The Colonel set off down the towpath to check. He returned to report that the towpath was easily negotiable but that there was no boat. We danced, returned to the pub and had another beer. And there was some rather nice white rum on special.

Then the Colonel found the boat, which had been hiding round the corner. With some scrambling and a few mobile phone calls, several people made it in time: the boat set off and took us almost as far as the first processional dance had done. The rest of a somewhat depleted party had easily out-paced us and were waiting. The perambulation set off across the fields once more. Up through a cluster of houses, along a road where we could finally re-unite the accordion with its trolley, and eventually back to base.

Having now walked four and a bit miles in sodden clothes with rather more alcohol in my blood than was perhaps sensible in the circumstances, I was looking forward to the scouts' barbecue fire. Sadly, the rain had taken its toll here as well. The hot-dogs were cooking on a gas griddle and we stood and argued about whether the reptile crawling over the log fire was a frog or a toad. Still, rain is necessary for the crops so, if it's a good harvest, you have us to thank. And The Colonel. When all's said and done, even the rain failed to blight the event. Thank you, sir.

I have this cunning plan for next year, which is to emulate the Shrawley dancers, use a mouth-organ and bones of the music, four short staves rather than carrying the sticks, and kit including sensible footwear and warm jackets. Of course, that guarantees blistering sunshine and heatstroke.