The Best Way to Get Rid of Your Eyebrows

by Jack Cameron (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection United Kingdom

My first look at Ottery St Mary was a large green tent that read “St John’s Ambulance”, together with portaloos and a fire truck, and I felt like I had happened on some sort of disaster zone. Naturally, as I was about to meet people playing with fire, I sought out some Dutch courage soon after my arrival in Ottery. Beer in hand, we made our way to the main square, swimming our way through human jam, to await the first barrel. Remember, remember the fifth of November. I doubt I will have a more memorable fifth of November than I did in Ottery St Mary. Perhaps no place on Earth demonstrates the power of stubborn tradition than the small 10,000 strong town in East Devon. For each year on the above date, a select few of the town’s inhabitants gather 17 large barrels outside of 4 pubs (so far so good), coat them with tar (OK), set them on fire (sounds like a show), hoist them onto their shoulders (wait, what?) and then charge through hordes of curious folk desperate to get rid of their facial hair (oh dear). Through 400 years of Chinese whispers, the reason why this beautiful lunacy takes place has been lost. You’d figure that someone would have written something down or left a handy note, but as is a common theme with British traditions, all we can do is have a stab at it. If in doubt, it probably wards off evil spirits (those things were all the rage back then). Now, if someone was to ask me to hoist up to 30kg of burning tar and flaky wood on my shoulders, I’d ask for a damn good reason. I could see the big boys now, dressed in multiple layers of tattered rugby shirts and oven mitts, presumably adequate protection from 1000° burning tar. Whoomph! All of a sudden I glimpsed a few orange faces through gaps in the crowd, and lo and behold, a floating barrel spouting flames from one side at least 4 foot in the air. The barrel moved closer and closer, accelerating as people seemed to realise that this item was quite warm, like moths flying too close to a lighter. I try to avoid taking too many pictures and videos, but I realised that people back home wouldn’t quite grasp what I was telling them. In reviewing my awful footage, a middle age gent summed up the situation quite eloquently (“f**cking hell”). Luckily the gent and I were able to sacrifice a small child in front of us and the barrel moved on heading to the right, and we followed. From here, we had a better vantage of the barrel carriers themselves. Most appeared to be in their 20s/30s, and most all but one of them appeared to be sane, handing off the barrel after they’d sprinted up and down a few times in the limited space afforded to them by the swarming moths. One memorable fellow (young, beard, rugby player) was decidedly insane, shouting what I guessed to be obscenities and behaving as if someone had stolen his handbag and made off into the crowd, whilst he tried to give chase despite the inconvenience of a burning barrel. It was extremely, undeniably, fun. I have the misfortune to be born outside of Ottery St Mary, for only they have the honour of carrying a barrel; the same one given to their parents, their grandparents, their great-grandparents and even their not-so-great older cousin who lords it over them at every family occasion. I vividly imagined entire walls of Ottery households dedicated to rows upon rows of framed hunched silhouettes with flaming backs, stretching from skirting board to an Artex ceiling 40 feet above. I was struck by the beauty of this tradition. There will be families that have probably hoisted this burning mass on their shoulders through 400 years. It is with this thought I conclude with, rather than the gigantic beast that is set on fire in the early hours of the next morn, because the Tar Barrels were my first introduction to the weird and wonderful traditions of the strange little isle I had long underappreciated.