Come on my son, you are not dead;
Stop your sleeping, get out of bed.
I’ll wash you and warm you; I’ll turn you about;
And when you start growing, I’ll give you a clout.
I’ll bash you and thrash you; I’ll stamp on your head.
I’ll grind you and bind you; you’ll wish you were dead.
I’ll take you and bake you, and when you are done
I’ll soak you and mash you, my little son.
I’ll heat you and feed you on apples and pears.
I’ll give you some honey: the sweetness of bears.
I’ll leave you to brew for the length of my fingers.
I’ll watch as you grow a head, hope that it lingers.
And when you are ready, my little one,
We’ll lap up your essence, my fatherless son.
I came across this *modern henge* while out walking last week. See the notice. And I thought…
Well, it’s thought that people of old met at these henges to celebrate this or that feast. And it’s assumed that at such feasts the celebrants enjoyed an alcoholic beverage or two.
And so I give you my take on an ancient recipe… for Neolithic Ale! Excuse the anachronic apples and pears.