Uggaby sits snugly in a crook of the River Waveney, with one road in and the same road out, which is which depends on your sympathies, for this community is divided. A blood feud has been in progress since time out of mind, the cause long since forgotten but the reason still visibly evident.

The Uggabian crest

With the River to the south, encompassing most of the village and Yager's Marsh to the north, Uggaby has been static in both population and geography for several generations. The result is an isolated people or rather peoples. Local legend suggests that the Newcomers living in the western half of the village are descended from remnants of the Great Army of the Danes which formed in East Anglia in the late Ninth Century, predominantly blond to attest to their purity and descent. The Eastern people or the Owlones are an enigma, with raven black hair, olive skin and a passion for life which sits alien with their surroundings.

In 1926 a 'Hogback' monument was unearthed complete with runic inscriptions, dating from the tenth century and unquestionably of Danish origin it gave weight to the Newcomers right to control town affairs. The deciphering of the runes baffled archaeologists, until a breakthrough was made in 1937 by University College London. Their verdict: Our Viking stonemason was possibly illiterate, he had no grasp on his own language and he construed into runic script some garbled message concerning the vengeance of Erik the Rotund a local Viking war lord. A Viking warrior Sitrik was discovered with Erik's daughter, a pig's bladder and a trough of mead. It would appear that Erik was so distraught at the affair that he banished Sitrik and his immediate family to Uggaby.

The ancestors of the Owlones, judging from their physical appearance may have come from northern Mediterranean shores. But no compelling evidence has been discovered to back up this theory. A few pieces of Roman 'black burnishes wear' appear in gardens or after road works, just enough to keep everyone guessing.

Deila Street divides the town and its loyalties, running from the High Street to the River, the wide thoroughfare allows access to Pugh's Boatyard and the Pheasant and Pucker Inn to tourists on whom the town relied for its income. North of the High Street on the edge of Yager's Marsh is Abb's Mill, a redundant water pumping station, preserved by The national Trust but in the absence of a more ancient structure used by the townsfolk for their annual festival The Uggaby Obsidio. Played out by the young men and women of the village, it represents the storming of the town by the Viking Sitrik. Traditionally the Owlones put up a token resistance in the Windmill then surrender to the newcomers; fireworks are set off while water and flower bombs rain down on the belligerents. Both groups try desperately to gain the upper hand before the ritual capitulation. The Newcomers would then retire to the Pheasant and Pucker Inn and the Owlones to The Nelson's Arm. The pub is so called after Lord Nelson stayed there in 1804, when asked if the establishment could be named The Nelson Arms in honour of his visit, he said as his upper appendages were in the singular then so should the name of the hostelry.

If you had observed this re-enactment year in year out as a casual non-partisan spectator, you would have noticed that the event has become more hotly contested as the years passed. The traditional victors have become more jubilant and the defenders more resentful. The showdown takes place in the spring with this year's event being the most troublesome, involving the local police and very nearly an Armed Response Unit. The Owlones decided to make a stand; well one Marta Denton decided to make a stand. Marta was a tall laconic girl with raven black hair and penetrating large brown eyes. In her early twenties she had a dark side and was seen to wander the village in the early hours. Stories from her childhood have added to the mystery, such as beheading her dolls and keeping them in a paper bag under her bed or more recently threatening to annihilate the entire parish council with nothing more than a soup spoon. Marta has her pick of any of the men in the village, but she keeps her relationships short, never getting too close, always looking after her own interests.

Taking charge of the resistance to the Newcomers she secretly had the windmill stocked with vittles, drink, camping stoves and other prerequisites of a siege. The fireworks were larger and more powerful than before being especially imported from the Far East. The flower for the bombs was liberally mixed with cayenne pepper and the water bombs spiked with ammonia.

When the time arrived for the contest to begin Marta and her forces had already manned the mill. The village folk and sightseers gathered in the market place while an ice cream man prepared to ply his trade, a pall of greasy smoke wafted from a mobile hamburger stand as the expectant crowd awaited the arrival of the Danish invaders.

From the High Street and into Pump Lane came young grinning Newcomers, resplendent in papier-mâché horned helmets and cardboard swords, Marta's defenders waited. "By the blood of Sitrik and his clan" shouted Daniel Gant, a tall blonde cardboard Viking with fierce blue eyes, "Surrender to us and we will spare your women" his brow creased with mock anger and fury. "Goo to hal" the broad Suffolk accent blasted down from the windmill window. Mata's 2nd in Command, Ted Offard had acquired a loud hailer. A volley of water and flower bombs followed, the added ingredients soon took effect and the besiegers fled west towards the churchyard and safety.

Old George Langley the village policeman had an inkling that something was wrong, not the quickest of wits, but something was defiantly wrong, he cupped his hands and prepared to address the windmill. He would liked to have used his official loud hailer, very impressive using a loud hailer, a pity he mislaid it. Before he could utter a work another fusillade of water and flour bombs sent Uggaby's representative of the law diving for cover. The spectators had moved behind what barricades they could find and waited for events to unfold, this was an unexpected bonus.

Langley cycled to No. 5 Moer Crescent the upmarket abode of  Major Faircourt the Chairman of the parish council. "Ccome qoock sar thur owlones oon leave thur mill" rambled old Langley, allowing himself to fall into the vernacular. "Its tha minx marta" he added. Faircourt hesitated; he hadn't forgotten the soup spoon incident.       Armed with the full story and wearing a bright yellow Souwester for protection the Major advanced on the windmill with all the camouflage skill of a cock pheasant.                                                      

The Major was in his mid-fifties, overweight and wealthy. If it wasn't for his money he would be a foul mouthed bully, probably clinically insane. But because of his wealth he was idolised by all of those who could possible gain from his friendship.

Marta had nothing to gain from such a union and saw the man for what he was. The defenders of the mill had used the lull to drink themselves into insensibility; their resolve was diminishing as fast as the beer stocks. Marta realised that their position was hopeless and made good her escape disappearing along the marsh edge and safety.

The last she saw of the incident was the Major taking cover from a hail of rockets, jumping jacks and un-tethered catherine wheels as he tried to reason with the now leaderless drunken defenders. There will be another time and another day she thought entering the public bar of the Nelson's Arm.