It begins in October, with the sound of a loud bang in the early evening, followed by an occasional whoosh. It tells me Bonfire Night is almost upon us. Come November, the air will smell faintly of smoke and fireworks—it was the same when I was a boy.
A memory stirs.
I’m back in a 1960s backstreet, clutching a homemade “Guy” and hoping for a penny or two. This is a look back at Bonfire Night, the real story of Guy Fawkes, and the fading sparks of a very British tradition.
Somewhere in Middle England, late 1960s
A small boy stands outside a corner shop with a homemade effigy, whom we call “Guy”. A bundle of old clothes stuffed with newspaper, a hat perched at a slight angle, and a paper face meant to resemble one of the most famous villains in British history: Guy Fawkes.
“Penny for the Guy?” the boy calls, hopefully.
A man passes, uninterested. The boy tries again. “Penny for the Guy, please, sir?”
A young woman looks over, smiles, and rummages through her basket. She pulls out a purse and produces a big copper penny, and then another — pre-decimal coins that felt like real money.
“Be careful with those fireworks,” she says kindly, handing them over.
He grins, pockets the coins, and can already hear the whoosh and bang of rockets in his imagination.
I was that boy, out on dark nights, asking strangers for a few pennies so I could buy fireworks to celebrate a tradition that, at the time, I had little understanding of. Except we were told that Guy Fawkes was a bad man.
The Spark Behind the Celebration
For those unfamiliar with the roots of Bonfire Night, it all goes back to 1605, when a group of English Catholics plotted to blow up the Houses of Parliament. It was called the Gunpowder Plot, and its aim was simple but spectacular—to assassinate King James I and wipe out much of the Protestant ruling class in one fiery blast.
The ringleader was a man named Robert Catesby. He believed that Catholics were persecuted under Protestant rule — and, in fairness, they were. Catesby’s “solution”, however, was not one that would have gone down well in any century.
Enter Guy (or Guido) Fawkes, a soldier and explosives expert who had been fighting for Catholic Spain. He was recruited to handle the dangerous bit — guarding the barrels of gunpowder and, when the time came, lighting the fuse.
As plots go, it was elaborate, daring, and destined to fail. The conspirators were betrayed before they could strike. Fawkes was caught red-handed in the cellars beneath Parliament with enough explosives to change the course of history.
After torture, confession, and an unpleasant public execution, Fawkes met his end — and Catesby, along with the other plotters, didn’t fare much better. Their bodies were mutilated and displayed as a warning. The message was clear: don’t mess with the monarchy.
A Law, a Bonfire, and a Villain Reborn
King James’s government decided that the foiling of the plot was something to celebrate. Parliament passed a law decreeing that November 5th should forever be marked with thanksgiving and bonfires.
And so it began: a yearly blaze, a burning effigy, and fireworks to light up the sky. What started as a political statement turned into a folk tradition.
Over time, Guy Fawkes became the symbol of it all. Not Catesby, not the others — just Fawkes. His name was easier to remember, and perhaps there was something about him that captured the imagination. A rebel. The man with a match who wanted to change history.
When I was a boy, we didn’t think about the politics or persecution. We were just children, making a stuffed dummy out of Dad’s old trousers and shirt. We perched it on top of the bonfire in the backyard like some ragged king and waited for the night to fall.
The grown-ups lit the fire, the rockets screamed, the bangers went bang, and we stood with our sparklers — the world lit up for a few glorious moments.
From Backyard to Big Displays
Back then, Bonfire Night was a neighbourhood event. Everyone had their own fire and their own fireworks, and the air was thick with wood smoke and excitement. Now, things are a little more… regulated.
Most people go to organised displays, where the bonfires are huge, and the fireworks are synchronised to music. And there is health and safety now, and rightly so. I remember once getting too close to a banger that had fizzed and spluttered out. Just as I was about to pick it up, it exploded in a loud bang; the shock knocked me over. I got lucky; a few seconds later, and I might have had a finger or two less. Still, it’s hard not to miss the chaos and charm of the old days.
You rarely see a “Guy” any more. The effigy has quietly vanished, replaced by glow sticks and LED wands. Even the “Penny for the Guy” tradition has gone, and not just because pennies won’t buy much beyond a nostalgic smile now.
In truth, Halloween seems to have stolen Bonfire Night’s thunder. Pumpkins and plastic skeletons now fill the shop shelves long before any mention of Guy Fawkes appears. But the fireworks, at least, endure. When November arrives, we still hear the whoosh, and the bang, that connects us back to something ancient.
The Ceremony That Still Burns
Every year, before the State Opening of Parliament, the Yeomen of the Guard still check the cellars beneath Westminster. It’s become a quaint tradition that harks back to that night in 1605. There are no barrels and no plot, just ceremony and symbolism now.
And that’s what Bonfire Night has become — a symbol. Of rebellion, of history, of fire and community.
A Distant Memory
I can’t remember the last time I saw a child standing outside a shop with a homemade Guy, hoping for a few coins. But sometimes, when the air smells of smoke and fireworks, I think back to what I did all those years ago.
It’s funny how traditions fade and yet somehow never really die. The fire still burns, even if it’s not in every backyard or garden any more. And every November 5th, when the first rocket streaks into the night, a night of fun begins — something so far removed from what happened in 1605.
Remember, Remember.
The fifth of November
Gunpowder, Treason, and Plot
I see no reason
Why Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be Forgot
Somewhere, the boy I was still remembers.
Image one — by Mike Singleton from Pixabay
Image two — by Pookie Fugglestein, free, for public use. httpscommons.wikimedia.orgwikiFileGuy_Fawkes_birthplace.JPG
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