Before we begin this week’s piece, an announcement! I’m delighted to say my good friend and long-time collaborator Paul has joined the Histories fold, and from next week we will alternate between this series and Paul’s new one on ‘The History of Things’, exploring the fascinating backstories of everyday objects and products which we all take for granted.
In recent decades, there have been many books published around an eccentric adventure of some kind – the legions of variations on Land’s End to John O’Groats, say, or comedian Tony Hawks’ Round Ireland with a Fridge, or the more literary but no less oddball London Orbital, in which Iain Sinclair and his dishevelled chums circumambulated London on foot along the route of the M25 motorway. But as always, there are historical precedents long before – we’ve previously met the 17th century poet John Taylor, for example, whose numerous misadventures included travelling from London to the Isle of Sheppey in Kent in a paper boat.
This week I give you what I think might be the ur-journey of them all – at least, if you know of an earlier one, I’d love to hear about it.
Like Round Ireland with a Fridge, this one began with a bet, no doubt in an alehouse. In this case, the bet was at 3:1 odds and was clearly designed to earn the perpetrator some money to live off (later, John Taylor would raise money by subscriptions for his journeys).
The perp in question was a fascinating and tantalising figure – in his day, far more famous than the young chap called William Shakespeare he was associated with, but even more of a mystery in terms of the details of his life.
William Kempe, commonly known as Will Kemp, was probably born in the 1560s, although few details of his life are certain. It has been speculated that he was related to the wealthy Kempe family from near Ashford in Kent, but there is only circumstantial evidence for this. He is first mentioned for certain as a performer with the Earl of Leicester’s Players in the 1580s, and it is suggested he may have therefore been born around 1560. He performed with these players in the Netherlands in 1585–6, and was even employed by Sir Philip Sidney to carry letters home… which he delivered to the wrong lady, which caused some embarrassment.
Kemp was soon known for his physical comedy in particular, becoming a natural successor to the famous clown Richard Tarlton, who died in 1588. Kemp was also renowned for his jigs – comic skits and song and dance routines which perhaps bring to mind the music halls of the Victorian era.
In 1592–4, Kemp was performing with Lord Strange’s Men, and performed at the Rose in Southwark, before joining the Lord Chamberlain’s Men in company with celebrated actor Richard Burbage and one Will Shakespeare. Kemp performed in several of Shakespeare’s early comedies, and is even believed to have created the character of Falstaff.
Around 1599, though, he seems to have fallen out with the Lord Chamberlain’s Men and pursued what we might call a solo career. The first and well-known direction this took him in was his 110-mile morris dance from London to Norwich in February–March 1600, which he then recounted in Kemp’s Nine Daies’ Wonder.
He perhaps travelled in Europe after that, and in 1602 was performing with Worcester’s Men in England, but then the trail goes cold again, though we know he was dead by 1615.
Nine Daies’ Wonder is a remarkable document, witty and knowing, and perhaps the foundation stone of many a madcap voyage since.
Below is an extract from his fifth day of dancing (it should be noted that the nine days actually took place over about a month, thanks to some long stays in hostelries in between), where he shares a fun anecdote about some Suffolk locals who briefly joined him on his trip. (For the whole story and more about his life, I have published a new edition of his little book – also available at Amazon and elsewhere.)
The fifth day’s journey – 20th February 1600
Taking advantage of my three miles that I had danced the day before; this Wednesday morning, I tripped it to Sudbury; whither came to see me, a very kind Gentleman, Master Foskew, that had, before, travelled afoot from London to Berwick: who, giving me good counsel to observe temperate diet for my health, and other advice to be careful of my company, besides his liberal entertainment, departed; leaving me much indebted to his love.
In this town of Sudbury, there came a lusty tall fellow, a butcher by his profession, that would, in a Morrice, keep me company to Bury. I being glad of his friendly offer, gave him thanks: and forward we did set! But ere ever we had measured half a mile of our way, he gave me over in the plain field: protesting that “if he might get a hundred pounds, he would not hold out with me!” For, indeed, my pace in dancing is not ordinary.
As he and I were parting, a lusty country lass being among the people, called him “Faint-hearted lout!” saying, “If I had begun to dance, I would have held out one mile, though it had cost my life!”
At which words, many laughed.
“Nay,’’ saith she, “if the Dancer will lend me a leash of his bells, I’ll venture to tread one mile with him, myself!”
I looked upon her, saw mirth in her eyes, heard boldness in her words, and beheld her ready to tuck up her russet petticoat. I fitted her with bells, which she, merrily taking, garnished her thick short legs: and with a smooth brow, bade the Tabourer begin.
The drum struck, forward march I, with my merry Maid Marian: who shook her fat sides, and footed it merrily to Melford; being a long mile.
There parting with her, I gave her, besides her skin full of drink, an English crown to buy more drink: for, good wench! she was in a piteous heat!
My kindness she requited with dropping some dozen of short curtsies, and bidding “God bless the Dancer!”
I bad her “Adieu!’’ and to give her her due, she had a good ear, danced truly: and we parted friendly.