Sometimes when the moon is full and the snow lies heavy and the wolf's mournful howl echoes across the misty downs' men whisper in hushed tones, huddled around their amber hued drinks of ale and mulled cider steaming gently under the wooden beams of a place that once a year, legend has it, becomes the most exclusive soiree in town. Come closer, young'un they urge as they beckon you in. Come closer to the fire and hear our tale of the RVQ.
There are many rumours that circulate this mystical party. Their tale starts with a heated debate as, like all legends, everyone's telling is different. Some say it is held in Chilham, some say Blean. Others scoff their derision and say that they have spoken to a friend whose cousins boyfriends sister once attended in Kingsdown.
The origins of this gathering are surrounded in myth and hear-say. Some say with dogged determination that it has been going for generations, others are less sure but all agree that every year, without fail. the legendary RV opens his doors and invites people to partake of his hospitality.
Young'un, follow the ravens they mutter, if you wish to see with your own eyes, nodding their hoary heads in agreement, follow the ravens, the ravens know the way.
They say it happens in the summer when the sun reaches its zenith above the hallowed spires of the ancient church and the bells begin to toll out their venerable melodies.
They tell you that the only way to enter is if you can answer in the affirmative to the question on the door.
Have You Have Met RV?
The legend says at this party are grody and malodorous concoctions from far off lands that all newcomers must partake of as part of the solemn initiation ritual of the RVQ. If you pass the door, young'un and enter this realm you too will have to drink from the black bottles.
They sigh that the man is a wizard who can brew his own ale for all to delight in. That the taste of it is like nothing you would have experienced before or since. The tale pauses momentarily as each man, lost in his own imagination, licks his lips in anticipation of what such a golden delicacy must taste like.
They tell you of a place where the fruits of the summer combine with the herbs of the earth to provide sweet nectar for all who desire it.
They say that the wizard is a host. A man who provides for the select few lucky enough to be invited to this most secret and elusive of gatherings. That if you go there you will partake in delights divine enough to tempt the gods of Olympus from their ambrosia.
With bowed head the old men tell tales of merry-making at the party. Of music and laughter, of poetry and politics, of excess and comedy. The men speak of guests who gather and talk and sing and dance the day away.
Drink flows freely it is said young'un, drinks of every hue and colour, such a variety of tastes to sup on and quench your thirst and cause you to become light headed and giggly, filled with love and joy at all that surrounds you.
The legend claims that the flowers scent drifts gently through the air, mingling with the aroma of cooking meats and grilled cheese as the charcoal glows in the late afternoon sun.
Guests banter and laugh, at ease in their surroundings, waiting for the wordsmith to regale them with his words of poetry and rhyme.
The evening wears on and the embers flare and die down reflecting your wonder in your wide eyes as the old men smile wistfully and fall silent, their tale at an end. Yes young'un they say, there is a place where once a year the sun smiles down beatifically at the lucky few.
One day, you may be there yourself.
