A trio of
blue-jacketed marshals come up the passageway of the city's defensive
walls at an easy pace. Two groups of tourists are ushered to the
sides by their guides. Very soon the first group of Apprentice Boys,
marching behind banners of the association, appear. They are mainly
middle-aged men, dressed in suits and wearing crimson collarettes.
They are members of the General Committee of The Apprentice Boys of
Derry. They strike solemn poses as they parade forward.
They are followed by
alternating bands and lodges of Apprentice Boys, named for the
foundation clubs that form the basis of this commemorative
organisation in the colonised city, Londonderry (54 degrees North, 7
degrees West).
Press photographers
try to wave the marshals, the tourists and on-lookers out of the way,
keen to get a clear image of the head of the parade as it approaches.
The marchers advance
at a steady pace, climbing the slope of the walls towards Double
Bastion. The first group passes, the General Committee, followed by a
band, combining fifes, side-drums, cymbals, triangles and a bass drum
in recognisably military formation and rhythm. The tune is
high-pitched, melodious and martial. The side-drums snarl and the big drums boom. Further bands and lodges follow. The performances are
stirring and frightening in equal measure. The band uniforms are
Imperial Army mock-heroic, echoing the uniforms of grenadiers,
dragoons, fusiliers, corps of engineers and household cavalry.
In between each band
march lodges, the core groups of the Apprentice Boys, largely men
aged 40 and over. The band members, including women and girls, are
noticeably younger. Do male members of the bands move into the lodges
as they age? And the women? The progress of the parade is steady,
low-key, but never po-faced. There is the jollity of a spree on a
bright morning. No alcohol is consumed. No barriers are yet erected
on side-streets. They will come later. The city is functioning, if
early-morning drowsy.
The parade completes
the 1km circuit of the city walls, which are unbroken except for a
small dip on Newmarket Street, between the civic theatre and a
bookie's shop. From another vantage point, tucked up against the low
wall on the inside of the walkway between Butcher Gate and Castle
Gate, the bands are close. Marchers wave or nod. A number smile and
say 'hello'. An MP passes and grins a greeting. Sweat glistens on the
arms of the bass drummers. Their substitutes march beside them, ready
to take over as the day progresses. They slap their pompom-headed
drumsticks in their palms or on their thighs.
The marchers leave
the walls and make for the war memorial on The Diamond. This
brutalist, graphic WW1 war sculpture dominates the city's highest
square. The marchers, bands and lodges encircle the memorial in quiet
and good order. Wreaths are laid. The Last Post, Abide with
Me, God Save the Queen are played. The mood is
reverential, earnest and calm.
Then the lodges and
the bands move off, in preparation for the main parade, a much larger
event, involving thousands of people from outside the city and held
on the streets rather than on the walls.
Police vehicles move
in and officers begin erecting barriers.
Latent questions of
timing, scale, civic disruption, abuse of alcohol and drinking
regulations are added to existing questions of exclusion and
sectarianism.
A shift from
commemoration to triumph, from reverence to bawd, from an historical
spectacle to an anti-social rally is underway.
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