This Side of The Pond

Ever fancied yelling at your neighbors to let them know the goings on of the day? Does your voice carry for miles and boom with the resonance of authority? In that case, you’d make an excellent town crier and should head to my home town next week for the Southern England Town Crier’s Competition.

The contest promises it will be a “fine spectacle of dandy costumes, beautiful frocks, healthy lungs and a true display of British eccentricity,” so to be honest I’m not sure why you haven’t already put down your newspaper to start packing a suitcase.

I’d love to join you, for the crier is in many ways the precursor to my role as reporter, except apparently I’m not allowed a bell because I’d “never stop bloody ringing it” and I’m an awful public speaker.

I’m sure everyone is familiar with the idea of a town crier: a large-lunged gentleman (or sometimes lady) in a long red and gold coat, ruffled shirt and tricorne hat, sharing news with the community while ringing that coveted bell to attract attention. It’s something you guys brought over from the old world but phased out about a century ago, but in Britain it’s still surprisingly alive and well.

My home town actually boasts the record for the longest-serving town crier in the world – perhaps in history, too, as there are no records to suggest anyone has ever shouted at people for longer. David Squire just reached the 60-year mark, even though he’s never been paid and has to supply his own uniform.

Locals threw a party for him when he hit 55 years (perhaps assuming he’d want to retire), hosted by the owners of a pub who have had a soft spot for his services since he agreed to perform their ribbon cutting using a cutlass. To the best of my knowledge, he still hasn’t retired.

I witnessed Mr. Squire’s talents in my youth as he strode purposefully down Poole Quay while making his customary racket. He’s one of only 150 criers left in my country, though the fact he kept turning up to things I was also attending led me to assume he was still a necessary part of any event.

I still do believe that, if I’m honest. David Squire first performed the role of crier when he was just 15 years old, at the annual ceremony of Beating the Bounds. Until I just this minute looked it up, I had no idea such a custom existed, but apparently it’s been done for hundreds of years.

Every Ascension Day, a group of old and young members of the community walk the boundaries of their parish, accompanied by the parish priest, so the elders can share with the next generation exactly where they lie. It was once a clever way to get around the fact that maps were a rarity and memory has a tendency to fade.

Squire’s presence would have been just as ceremonial as the event itself in a modern world where there’s no need for criers or amateur surveyors. But once upon a time, few people could read and the printing press had yet to be invented, so the town crier was responsible for keeping people informed.

A crier would always begin with “oyez, oyez, oyez”, which comes from the French verb “ouïr” (“to listen”) and means “hear ye”. He would end with “God save the King/Queen”.

In between those formalities, he would proclaim whatever news was pressing, from changes in local bylaws to the opening of market days and royal proclamations. Town criers also closed salmon fishing season, which I feel could easily translate to a Wyoming way of life.

After all, I can’t imagine any hunter disagreeing that the best way to close out their season would be a man in a long red coat wandering over to scare up every bit of wildlife within a three-mile radius. What could possibly go wrong?

Because certain of these pronouncements were none too popular, such as tax increases, it turns out that “don’t shoot the messenger” isn’t just a cliché – it’s actually a real command. To protect these bearers of information, the crown decreed that their actions were performed in the name of the monarch and harming a town crier was an act of treason.

When the crier had finished his speech, he would attach the scroll it was written on to the door post of the local inn. This was called “posting a notice” and is why you’ll find some of today’s newspapers naming themselves things like The Washington Post.

I don’t think Britain came up with the idea for town criers. Apparently, even the Romans had criers on market days and, in Germany, a crier was once employed for the very specific task of reminding people not to pee in the river the day before water was drawn for brewing beer.

But it doesn’t surprise me that we are the ones still holding fast to our millennium-old custom, because there’s nothing Britain likes more than to reminisce about obsolete parts of our culture. This may partly be because we enjoy confusing other people with them.

Crier Tony Appleton caused quite the fuss in 2013, for example, when he appeared outside the hospital in which the Duchess of Cambridge had just given birth and began bellowing an announcement to gathered journalists.

Dressed in an elaborate costume – including a tricorne hat with feathers wider than his own shoulders – he baffled foreign members of the press and caused confused American journalists to tell viewers he was the official mouthpiece of Buckingham Palace. He was not – he hadn’t even been invited, but he turned up anyway to lend his lungs to the cause.

For the British, there’s always a good reason to keep tradition alive: you never quite know when you’re going to need it. For this reason, should the apocalypse ever come to pass, you may expect to find me outside the courthouse with my socks pulled up to my knees and the bell I’ve always wanted, shrieking about upcoming events and governmental decisions at the top of my voice.