CAKES AND ALE

A FESTIVE FEBRUARY - SORT OF

February is the shortest month, lasting a mere 28 days except on Leap Years like 2024. Leap Years have special rituals and qualities, more of this in later posts.

The old Athenian word for this period was named after the festival of Anthesteria. This was an ancient ceremony held for three days in honour of Dionysus, the wine god. It celebrated the beginning of spring but also had aspects of a festival of the dead when the goddesses of death and ghosts roamed the city. Dionysus, or Bacchus as the Romans called him, was a multi-faceted god. Different images of him capture this well.

Dionysus Late 6th Century BCE

The Young Bacchus Guido Reni c. 1620

On the first two days of the ceremony, there was lots of merry making. Much wine was taken (probably too much) with wine-drinking contests for all, rich, poor, free or slaves. Libations were also poured on the tombs of relatives. Cheers, everyone.

Because the souls of the dead arrived from the underworld, these days were regarded as unlucky and defiled. Not to mention causing hang-overs. People chewed leaves of hawthorn and smeared their doors with tar to protect their homes from evil. Despite this, or maybe because of it, the fun and imbibing continued throughout.

The third day was a full blown festival of the dead. Fruit or cooked pulse were placed in pots and offered to Hermes Chthonios, an underworld figure, and to the souls of the dead, who were then requested to depart.

Bronze Mask of Dionysus. Second century BCE

The whole festival combined an ceremony of death while looking forward to better times.  Somehow, it encapsulates the essence of February. The month is perched between winter and spring, with sunny days tempting you to throw off your coat and, as soon as you’ve done so, blasting you with a wintry gale. Thankfully, for three years out of four, it’s only 28 days long.

Alice Petherton, the narrator of A Love Most Dangerous and Very Like a Queen, uncannily echoes exactly what I feel about the month: ‘Of all the months, I hated February most. Short though it was, it seemed to linger like some drear disease that clung to one with grim determination.’

The old English term for February was Sōlmōnath and has various interpretations. Wet mud month is one - the month of the sun’s return another. I’ve seen plenty of wet days in February in England but fewer when the sun returns except to taunt you.

Bede called it the month of cakes or flat bread. I like this description best.

What better to call the short, cold month of February than the month of cakes and ale. And it has echoes of its Greek counterpart. I wonder if the tradition of pancake day is something to do with this? Personally, I could never toss pancakes let alone race with them.

Cakes and Ale means a time of fun and pleasure, so follows on very much from the Athenian festival.

The phrase is taken from Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night when Sir Toby Belch (what an apt name) says to Malvolio: ‘Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?’ It’s a fitting riposte to all those who smugly give up the good things in life and think that everyone else should follow their example. I take this very seriously. My fear of becoming a zealot prevents me from giving up any pleasures whatsoever.

Cakes and Ale was also the title of one of Somerset Maugham’s most successful books. His main character, Rosie Driffield, is a target for smug conservatives because of her frankness and sexual freedom. The book's narrator, however, understands that she was a muse to the many artists who knew her. He would, of course, for he also enjoyed her favours.

Maugham himself suffered from the attacks of snobs, disparaged by critics who thought his writing was second-rate. Yet, he was the most successful writer in the 1930s. And he certainly lived a life of Cakes and Ale, of utter luxury. He spent winter and spring enjoying a hectic social life at his villa in Cap Ferrat on the French Riviera, indulging in sexual frolics with both men and women. This was followed by weeks of foreign travel. He spent autumn in London in his regular suite at the Dorchester Hotel, possibly sipping ale and nibbling cakes. He was probably in need of a rest.

Next week:

WHO SHALL I BE?