BY DAVID CAMPBELL
My wife Janet and I found ourselves in London during a crisp November in the mid-nineties, when an invitation from our friend Peter Farmer promised a weekend escape to the coastal town of Littlehampton. Upon our arrival, Peter announced the occasion: his annual Bonfire Night dinner. “I hope you’re familiar with the Gunpowder Plot?” he asked. I assured him that even across the Atlantic, we learn of Guy Fawkes and his audacious attempt to blow up the Houses of Parliament.
Peter, with a host’s pride, elaborated on how this failed plot evolved into a national celebration. That very evening, he explained, Littlehampton would hold its own tradition: a torchlight procession through the town, culminating in the lighting of a great bonfire on the Green. He was gathering twenty-five friends and family for dinner—a longstanding tradition of his own—before we would all venture out to witness the spectacle.
The feast itself was a lesson in British comfort. Peter’s traditional Bonfire Night supper was Bubble and Squeak with bangers. He described how the boiled cabbage and potatoes were served alongside the sausages, and any remnants would be fried together into a delicious breakfast the next morning—the source of the dish’s onomatopoeic name.
Suitably fortified by wine and a touch of brandy, we prepared to leave. Peter then presented Janet and me with small cloth bags, heavy with coins. He explained the custom: as the fire brigade marched in the procession, they would carry boots to collect donations—this year, for the Littlehampton Lifeboat Station. We were to drop a few coins in as they passed.
Stepping out into the night, I was struck by a thought: one would never see a torchlit parade in the United States. My American mind, conditioned by cinema, instinctively associated such gatherings with nefarious purposes—lynch mobs or villagers pursuing Frankenstein’s monster. This, however, was something entirely different.
What unfolded was a wondrous, almost surreal, pageant. The procession was a magnificent tapestry of local Bonfire and Carnival Societies, each group more elaborate than the last. Medieval knights in armour and their ladies in flowing gowns rode on steadfast steeds. A contingent in Elizabethan finery followed, including one gentleman who was the very image of Henry VIII. They were joined by poised Victorians, roguish pirates, the lifeboat crew in their survival gear, and the stirring pipes of marching bands. Most poignant to me, as an American, was the sight of the Littlehampton Bonfire Society members dressed in their intricate interpretation of Native American regalia.
As the final marchers disappeared into the night, we retreated, wrapped in warm blankets, to chairs in Peter’s garden. From that perfect vantage point, we watched the fireworks crackle and bloom over the dark silhouette of the town, before the great bonfire was finally lit, its flames leaping towards the starry sky.
It was a truly magical experience, a living English tradition that I profoundly hope will never fade. I’ll see you again, one day, at the Littlehampton Bonfire.
David Campbell is an American who spends a lot of time in Littlehampton, West Sussex.