Turning Up Is the Hardest Step: A Beginner’s Evening with St Albans Morris Men
Photo: Morris dancers practicing in a church hall in England with sticks, via mapsdrivinganddirections.com
It is 7.40pm on a Tuesday in late September 2026, and a church hall in St Albans is gradually filling with people carrying sticks, instruments and the slightly wary expression of someone who is not quite sure what they have signed up for. I am one of them. I have come to find out what a first Morris practice actually looks like, and whether a complete beginner with two left feet can survive an evening without being quietly asked to leave.
The short answer is yes. The longer answer involves warm-ups, a stick dance that looks simple until you try it, a fair amount of laughing at the wrong moment, and a pint afterwards that feels thoroughly deserved.
Before the first stick is picked up
The evening does not begin with a whistle or a barked command. It begins with chairs being moved, helloes exchanged and a quick check on who has brought spare sticks. The squire — the person who runs the side — welcomes newcomers without making them stand up and introduce themselves to the room. That helps.
Then comes the warm-up. It is not a military drill. There are shoulder rolls, gentle stretches, a bit of walking on the spot and some ankle rotations. Morris dancing may look like a cheerful pub tradition, but it is still dancing, and knees, calves and backs appreciate a few minutes of preparation. Nobody expects you to be flexible. Nobody expects you to be fit. They just expect you to be there.
The first surprise is how ordinary it all feels. There is no audition. No one watches you try a step and shakes their head. No one asks whether you have danced before. The side is made up of people who have been doing this for decades, people who started a few years ago and people who turned up for the first time this evening. The only qualification is a willingness to have a go.
Learning a simple stick dance
After the warm-up, the foreman — the person who teaches and calls the dances — gathers everyone round for a simple stick dance. The figures are explained slowly. Once to yourself. Foot up. Half hands. Back to back. Whole hey. The names sound like a code, and for the first ten minutes they are. But the foreman breaks each part down, walks it through, and then lets the side try it with sticks.
The sticks are not weapons. They are short, smooth pieces of wood, and the aim is to strike them together in time. That sounds easy. It is not. You have to remember which foot to step on, which hand to strike with, where to move next and whether you are supposed to be facing your partner or passing them. I manage the first strike, lose the second, apologise to my partner and then discover that the whole thing has carried on without me.
No one minds. The more experienced dancers simply reset, and the foreman calls the figure again. Newcomers are placed in the back row, which is exactly where you want to be when you are learning. You can watch, copy and make your mistakes without feeling as though the whole side is waiting for you. By the end of the evening I have managed a full run-through of the dance, albeit with a couple of wrong turns and one stick strike that lands slightly later than everyone else’s. It is not elegant. It is, however, enormous fun.
What you actually need to bring
Not much. That is the point. You do not need bells, baldrics, waistcoats or a specially embroidered handkerchief. The side has spare sticks and hankies for practice, and the kit can wait until you know whether you want to carry on. Comfortable clothes are fine. Trainers or shoes with a bit of grip are better than anything slippery. Bring water. Bring a sense of humour.
If you play an instrument, tell someone. Morris sides are always pleased to hear from musicians, and a practice is a good place to find out whether the tunes suit you. If you do not play, that is fine too. The side is not a closed shop, and the social side of the evening is as important as the dancing.
The pint afterwards
After the practice, a good number of the side decamp to a nearby pub. This is not an optional extra bolted onto the evening. It is part of the tradition. You sit with people who have been dancing Morris in and around St Albans for years, and you hear stories about wet village greens, memorable Boxing Day outings and the time someone’s stick went further than intended. You also hear about the next local event, the next ale and the next practice.
The pint is where the nerves settle. It is where you realise that the people who looked so competent an hour ago also spent their first evening getting the figures wrong. It is where the side stops being a group of strangers with sticks and starts being a group you might want to join.
The honest bit
You will be tired. You will get something wrong. You may feel self-conscious when the sticks start clicking and everyone else seems to know what they are doing. That is normal. The first practice is not a test; it is an introduction.
St Albans Morris Men have been dancing since 1972, but they are not asking you to arrive fully formed. They are asking you to turn up. If you have been meaning to try Morris dancing, or if you simply want to know what happens on a Tuesday evening in St Albans, the hardest step really is the first one through the door. After that, the side will help you with the rest.
