The Bower

 Today is the day of the Lichfield Bower, a curiously named celebration dating back to the reign of Henry II. Originally it was a muster or array, a way of finding out how many men could be called upon to fight if needed. All those capable of bearing arms would parade through the streets, accompanied by dancers and garlanded effigies of saints, and be handsomely rewarded at the end of the day with beef and wine at a specially erected 'bower house' decorated with laurel and lilac. When gunpowder became available, musketeers would join the procession, firing volleys outside the houses of leading townspeople, who were expected to respond by bringing out offerings of cakes and ale. While other towns abandoned such events, Lichfield continued to stage its Bower every Whit Monday, with a street parade that nowadays features local schools, bands and community organisations, with marching soldiers to represent the military. There are floats and lorries, a funfair, musical performances, the crowning of a Bower Queen (Ruskin would have approved), and of course – this being Lichfield – ample opportunities to eat and drink. I usually miss most of it, and that is perhaps just as well, as such spectacles stir up a strange brew of emotions in my breast – I don't know why – and I have been known to well up embarrassingly. 
  Philip Larkin seems to have been similarly, obscurely affected by such sights, to judge by his poem 'The March Past' (a villanelle of sorts), written on this day in 1951...

The march interrupted the light afternoon.
Cars stopped dead, children began to run,
As out of the street-shadow into the sun

Discipline strode, music bullying aside
The credulous, prettily-coloured crowd,
Evoking an over-confident, over-loud

Holiday where the flags lisped and beckoned,
And all was focused, larger than we reckoned,
Into a consequence of thirty seconds.

The stamp and dash of surface sound cut short
Memory, intention, thought;
The vague heart sharpened to a candid court

Where exercised a sudden flock of visions:
Honeycombs of heroic separations,
Pure marchings, pure apparitions,

Until the crowd closed in behind.
Then music drooped. And what came back to mind
Was not its previous habit, but a blind

Astonishing remorse for things now ended
That of themselves were also rich and splendid
(But unsupported broke, and were not mended) –

Astonishing, for such things should be deep,
Rarely exhumable: not in a sleep
So light they can wake and occupy
An absent mind when any march goes by.