A couple years back, during the week running up to Old Year’s Eve, I pestered my mate almost incessantly, asking how we’d spend the night. He has a more laid back approach to these kinds of things, following the moment rather than setting down everything black and white, concretely carved and set in stone, like I almost instinctively do. Only by the dawn of December 31st did he get a message from his acrobatic friend Maria. “There seems to be something brewing on a hill in M. Let’s go there”
And so it was decided. Maria got the word from an anonymous friend, the only person she’d known at the place. My mate would only know Maria, and dangling on even further removed from the world, I’d could only claim to somewhat know this mate. Surely you can understand I was slightly nervous. Forty Wallonians on a hill between vineyards and the New Year. I’ll really have to polish up my “bonsoirs” and “comment ça vas?”
We arrive between seven and eight. Despite the warm welcome and the kind eyes that ask us if we’d perhaps like a drink, or a slice of pie, baked by the curly girl, or a cup of soup brought by Bernardo over there, the tall guy, it’s quite clear we’ve missed some kind of memo. They all look rather mediaeval; the girls wearing long skirts, corsets, and handmade jewelry, while the slightly less dedicated men have donned their cloaks, wool knitwear, perhaps even straw hats or a wooden staff. The theme is ‘folklore’, and in our jeans we stand out quite a bit.
Thankfully Maria, our link with the rest of the group, finds herself in the same predicament. Insulted that she never got a chance to create her own outfit, she approaches the host to complain. However, he takes our plight to heart, and carefully counters with a solution. He knows about a little abandoned church up the hill. It sounds like Jojo’s been there before, as he describes the wall encircling its cemetery, which connects to one of the chapels. This low annex connects to the church’s nave, from where we’d be able to access one of the broken windows of the belltower. He makes it sound like a piece of cake.
Not wanting to wake up in jail, we agree on a bird call that my mate will make in case a car arrives to investigate our blasphemy. He is to wait by one of the windows and warn us in such a case. But after we climb down the tower’s filthy ladder and loot the sacristy, we find him at the other side of the window’s grill listening to music and scrolling his phone. We accuse him of negligence, but take inspiration from his unconcerned attitude, and return to the mostly mouldy or rat-eaten wardrobes, picking out the least affected silks and embroideries.
Right before vacating the scene of the crime, Jojo pulls the giant, two metre tall candle from the altar, threading it carefully through the grill at the window, piling it on top of my mate’s already sizable collection of robbed goods. This will form the centrepiece of our unexpected return to the dancefloor.
We duck our heads, running between the grapevines back to the house. Each of us picks an outfit, covered with crosses and gold thread, and we practise a quick hymn to heighten the mediaeval feeling of our parade. Frère Jacques walks next to me, hands held up in mock prayer, as we follow my mate and Maria behind Pope Jojo. His holy flame lights our path, and we are met with roaring laughter as we finally arrive home.
I hand out cards with the word of God as our hymn falters and is replaced by the loud, almost maniacal preaching of our Pope. He proclaims the New Year, blesses each of his trusty followers, and drives out evil spirits with his giant candle. Some of the mediaeval peasants turn out to be defiant heathens. But our Pope extends them an olive branch, lighting dozens of joints from the wick of the holy flame, and shares them with the unbelievers, returning peace and joy to the dance floor.
It’s not difficult converting heathens in the forest.
(For legal reasons this story is completely fictitious,
For anecdotal reasons this story is exactly accurate)
