I was driving through the village of Ovington, which is east of Barnard Castle in County Durham. It has a village green (more on that in a moment) and an inviting-looking pub. The sign caught my eye, and I pulled in to take a closer look. What were the Four Alls?
I didn't really want to go in and ask, let alone stay and have a drink. I was eager to get back to the caravan, cook an evening meal, and relax there. Then I noticed that oblong board with four round pictures on it, one above the other. I got out of Fiona and had a closer look.
There you are. At the top of the heap, Queen Victoria, with the caption 'I govern all'. How Britannic. Next down, a Bishop, with 'I pray for all'. How helpful. Under him, a soldier and 'I fight for all'. How reassuring. And at the bottom, a hardworking ploughman, and the wry caption 'I pay for all'. How true.
It's a comment on the hierarchical society of Britain right up to the Second World War, and more than a vestige of it remains even today. The power and pervasive public influence of the monarchy, the clergy and the military have diminished somewhat. But you can't say that they don't matter. And in any case, the downtrodden ploughman (or his modern taxpaying equivalents) is still carrying those above him, the career rulers and standard-setters. And thus will it always be so, amen.
The pub's name is obviously ironic. Almost provocatively so. And that's curious, in a part of the world formerly in the hands of heavy-handed landowners with plenty of clout. I don't know how stoutly independent a pub landlord could be in times gone by (I'm assuming the pub had the same name a hundred or more years ago) but I'd guess that if he offended the local squire or parson his trade would suffer. They might not be able to stop him opening for business, but they could see to it that his regular customers - the workmen on the local estate - stayed away. A hint of dismissal and eviction from the agent would soon frighten the men into a boycott.
Quite possibly the pub was called something else - the Percy Arms, say - in days of yore, and the present name was invented only in the 1970s, with the rise of discerning beer-drinking among the CAMRA generation. I should look into it, rather than merely speculate. Perhaps a County Durham reader knows the facts, and will comment. It's certainly an intriguing name for a pub.
It wasn't however the only item of interest at Ovington. As I drove in, there was another sign that said this was 'The Maypole Village', and there was indeed a tall maypole on the green.
These are rare things nowadays. Dancing around the Maypole passed from ordinary village life a very long time ago. There must have been a certain amount of upkeep necessary, and I suspect a lot of these maypoles gradually rotted away and were taken down before they fell on somebody, never to be replaced. The only other village maypole I can remember seeing within the last twenty years was in Dorset, at Sturminster Marshall. Anyway, here's the one at Ovington.
It's topped by a windvane in the shape of a running fox. And it clearly doubles as a flagpole. I wonder if, during the annual village fête, the men of the village are required to test themselves against each other by climbing to the top? I also wonder whether, on the First of May, the innocent young people of the village - or the not-so-innocent - do in fact dance around the pole, festooned with garlands of spring flowers and singing gaily. Who knows. It must in any event be an obvious magnet for Morris Dancers, especially with The Four Alls so handy! (I understand it's terribly thirsty work, Morris Dancing)
The artwork near the pole is a stylised representation of such dancing. I think it's caught the swirling ribbons quite nicely, and suggests the movement of dancers around the may pole rather well.
Naturally I couldn't resist the temptation to take a photograph with the maypole coming out of the top of my head, as if I were a latter-day Teletubby.
Cute little Laa-Laa was always my favourite. And the resemblance is uncanny.
