“We bring a processional hymn to the blood-soaked cobbles of the Horse Hospital; a ritual chant to Riddley Walker’s puppet show; a lullaby to calm the waters washing round the bed of Bill Bones. We come to offer at this shrine as pilgrims, to present our wounds in supplication, to sing into the ceremonial spaces that pulse with connection. To commune with you, whoever, whatever and wherever we may be and to plant a seed at the foot of the Bed of Bill Bones.
How to navigate the turbulent seas in a vessel filled with cracks? This body, this history, this folk music, this land? Bill Bones looks up from pounding oakum between the timbers of the deck; a slow pilgrim’s progress from bow to stern and back again. How to bear the crushing weight of royal order without the revels of a carnival, the masks and the racket of women shouting? With such poor means as paper and paste, string and beer cans, scraps of old song and the ringing of bells we try to bridge the gaps. Creaking rope bridges span the chasms of grief and ecstasy, hysteria and hypervigilance. Frustration-fuelled leaps leave us adrift, unanchored; obsessive weaving and mending of sails and nets keeps us going. ”
