The Jersey Battle of Flowers (BOF) has been part of my life for ever. The floral parade, worked on all year round by hundreds of volunteers, used to be the highlight of the tourist season in Jersey, always held on the second Thursday of August. My grandparents’ house was separated from the road used as the arena by a neighbour’s vegetable plot. The only time in the year he allowed anyone through the plot was on BOF day when the whole island and many tourists came together to enjoy what I remember always as a sunny, warm afternoon spent standing on a granite wall peering through railings, wishing I was all dressed up on a float and being terrified by all the ‘Bigheads’ that used to dominate the parade.
When I was about five or six, I was often looked after by my Auntie Kay, a no-nonsense woman who had spent nearly three years in an internment camp in the Black Forest during WW2. She had no children herself, but seemed to think it her duty to look after me while my parents kept churning out brothers that I didn’t want or need.
Auntie Kay, being the wife of a department store manager in Jersey, had some status, a car and lots of friends on the sherry and canasta circuit. About a week before BOF we went for morning coffee to one of her friends, a Mrs Troy, who owned the Silver Springs hotel above a popular bay. I was very bored, having to sit on the terrace and ‘behave’ while they drank coffee and gossiped. I must have drifted into my own world, because the next thing I knew, I was being led into a workroom with frothy creations in pale pink and pale blue satin and net hanging from the picture rails. Captivated by the prettiness all around me, when they asked me to try one on for size for a Battle float called Cinderella, I couldn’t scramble out of my dress fast enough.
I paraded in front of them and admired myself in the mirror. I wondered if I would have a headdress and what shoes could I wear? My old sandals would hardly match the splendour of the dress. As they lifted the beautiful dress back over my head and I stood there in my vest and knickers, Mrs Troy said ‘Thank you, Kay, that was very useful. I thought Susan was about the same size as the girl who will wear it. Her parents have taken her to England for the week, cutting it fine I thought, but now I know it will be just right for her’. Devastated doesn’t cover it, but it’s the closest I’ll ever get to being on a float.
My childhood was all about being seen and not heard. Children were not considered to be people in their own right, with thoughts and feelings. They were present, but ordered ‘not to be a nuisance’, and ‘not to ask for anything’. As the eldest I had to look after one or other or both of my brothers quite often, which I resented. Perish the thought that any one of the relatives, including parents, would show affection – that would be to spoil the child. Actually I did have one aunt who was affectionate and would hug me sometimes; the other three aunts would speak to me only when scrubbing my face after lunch before going back to school, or ask if I’d washed my hands (frequently), or tell me off for being naughty (even more frequently).
However, I had freedom of sorts, I walked to school on my own from a very early age, I was sent on walks pushing a little brother in a pushchair on my own, usually on a Sunday to the cemetery. I was sent to the shop which was a distance away with a list, and on one memorable occasion was sent to a farm for eggs, with a ten shilling note which I lost just as I got there. Fortunately for me the farmer’s wife found it stuck in the ivy that climbed around her door. I scooted and roller skated up and down the road and later, when I had a bike, I was off for the day with unsuitable friends in unsuitable places and no one noticed or cared, just glad to have me out of the way.
I contrast that freedom and its accompanying restrictions with the freedoms and restrictions my grandsons are under today. It’s almost a complete reverse. They have opinions and are free to make them known. They can speak at the dinner table, they can ask for things, they are not felt to be a nuisance but contributing members of the family. They are loved and show affection in return. The distaff side is that they cannot play games in the street, there is no spontaneity, no-one knocks on the door to ask if they’re coming out to play. They have ‘playdates’, they are ferried to structured activities, and they can spend large amounts of time on devices, shouting at unseen players who might be anywhere in the world.
My grandsons, Daniel and William, have been coming to Battle since they were born. The whole family comes. It’s our Christmas as we are rarely all together then. There has been a routine for years. They arrive on Wednesday, and the gazebo is erected in the garden. Thursday is Battle, so kids are taken to the zoo for the morning while someone is prevailed upon to put up the bunting and others are involved in the preparation of lunch for the wider family, because this is a family that puts food at the centre of every occasion. Friday sees the family on the beach, with a BBQ and night Battle to follow. Saturday is all about going for a meal to celebrate birthdays that inconveniently fall during the week. Sunday is ferrying everyone back to the airport.
Scratch that for this year! A new regime took over on Planet Battle and decided that, in order to counteract falling audiences, and after more than 100 years of tradition, Thursday’s 2.30 pm Battle would be on Friday at 5pm, so Friday’s night Battle would be on Saturday. This threw the early bookers into a tizz because they were arriving on Wednesday. No matter, a free Thursday enabled my sister to provide a celebration dinner at a local hotel for my niece, Lucy, to congratulate her on gaining a PhD last winter. It was a beautiful day and the Wednesday arrivals had spent it on the beach, while I delivered the Thursday incomers straight from airport to beach, each group arrival causing shrieks, hugs and everyone talking at once. Gradually all the sunbeds were filled. The boys, delighted to see one another, sped off to the sea, only to be recalled immediately for a reluctant application of sunscreen.
What I noticed this year is how much confidence the boys have when they come to Jersey. It’s comfortable, they know what they’re doing, know where they’re going and to a large extent, as long as we haemorrhage money to them, can be left to get on with it. They know where to get chips, ice-creams, sweets, drinks and anything else they fancy. Every so often a head might rise from a sunbed and ask if anyone can see the boys. A few more heads will stir and spot a pair of yellow shorts, so with a sigh, everyone relaxes again.
Now that they are nearly 12 and nearly 10, it’s lovely to see the confidence with which they claim the beach as their own, digging holes for the unwary to fall into (I didn’t, much to their disappointment), playing football, Frisbee, running into the sea carrying out, to adults, pointless expeditions, but to them special missions. Thinking back to when we always had to have at least one of us in attendance, it’s such a pleasure to be able to give them their freedom to be masters of their own destiny for the day.
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Given that these are boys who refused to wear anything other than football strips anywhere, ever, and were never separated from their iPads, this year saw another change. They dressed up very smartly for Lucy’s dinner, designer gear appeared, and suddenly we got a glimpse of the lovely young men they will grow into in the next few years. They engaged with us, amused us, took photos of us, and didn’t make a fuss when they were not allowed to go to the fair in the park next to the hotel. A revelation!
At Battle the next day we were all a bit discombobulated by the hitherto unheard-of break with tradition in date and time, but we coped. The boys were taken to the zoo as usual, and could stay longer than most years,
as instead of lunch we served a peculiar mid-afternoon meal, which probably suited no one but they politely stonked their way through. The wider family had arrived with their latest two-year-old addition, which was lovely. It means a lot to think some traditions will continue as new generations appear. The boys made a special effort to be charming, another sign of them growing up and becoming socialised. However, when they saw the audience being allowed into the arena, some settling on our wall, they immediately became proprietorial, adopting the role of bouncer and guardians of the wall. Strategically placing chairs on the pavement, they patrolled up and down, growling at anyone who dared to settle on OUR piece of pavement.
For more on this year’s Battle
Despite the fact it drizzled all afternoon, (Karma for changing the date we thought), the boys were thoroughly into it, giving expert commentary on all the floats, the dancing, the bands, even comparisons with other years. After the parade, the road didn’t open for some hours, so they got on their scooters and followed the floats down the arena. they were gone for ages, drinking in all the activity and scooting off some of their endless energy. No-one worried, with no traffic on the avenue except the floats, they were safe to roam and parents could enjoy the prolonged rosé interlude in peace!
The boys came back empowered to build their own float for next year, with engineer Lucy to mastermind the design and build, and they are going to be on that float. Think it might be scooter powered …
The moonlight parade got Daniel and William, our chief bouncers out again, with glares at anyone who dared to sit on the edge of THEIR pavement. The usual contingent of Star Wars characters were called out of the parade to receive fistbumps and photos. I don’t think last year the boys would have done that. An adult might have done it for them, but this year they were in charge and not afraid to shout out.
Apart from continually forgetting what day it was, I think we all enjoyed Battle this year. We agreed with the winner, (we don’t always). There was much discussion about why the Parishes, in the main, don’t enter any more, (it was better when they did). A few things were better, some things were missing. Doubtless there will be inquests all over the island and it will be a talking point every time we meet up.
Battle is a strange interlude in an otherwise busy year. It’s wonderful to see Dan and Will relaxed, without the normal restrictions they have at home, taking part of the group’s activities. Despite the young’s more sophisticated lifestyle and reliance on devices and You Tube, which didn’t exist when I was young, simple pleasures can still hold sway for them. They enjoyed messing about on the beach and were masters of the arena on their scooters. However, I wonder how much longer our boys will be captivated and not think that it's uncool to be seen here. Maybe we have another year or two? I hope so.
No time for long reviews this time but I have read
The Other Side of Mrs Woods by Lucy Barker - It’s the 1870’s in London and spiritualism was at its height. This is a debut novel and very enjoyable, recommend it.
I’m more than halfway through French Children Don’t throw Food by Pamela Druckerman, and it’s fascinating. Written by a Jewish American woman who has a child in France and wonders why French children are so differently brought up. Wish I’d had the book when mine were small!
Saw Oppenheimer - Cillian Murphy plays a blinder and it was clever, kept my attention for most of the time, but did it really have to be 3 hours and I minute? Maybe could have cut out the one minute at least …
Watched The Sixth Commandment on BBC Iplayer - chilling, terrifying and so well done