The Dusting of White Powder

In the flatlands of northeast Cambridgeshire at Windmill sidings there’s been a bit of snow overnight. Part time Morris dancers, Cyril and Edgar, enjoy the warmth of their engine as they potter about pushing wagons full of Brussels sprouts here and there, and sometimes there and here. 

The ancient windmill which hasn’t been used for at least 200 years is lovingly maintained by the locals, alas not in working order, for it is far too close to the railway. But because this is the remote Fenlands of East Anglia it is regularly used for all sorts of pagan rituals, many involving naked antics, green dye, scary dancing with jingle bells attached to bodily extremities. And of course huge amounts of cider and ale. Remember, what happens in the Fens, stays in the Fens. 

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