A sign, attached to the wall of the pub,
tells the story:
The Bun
House
Over the bar of 'The
Widow's Son'
in Devon's Road, Bow, hangs a
Cluster of Hot Cross
Buns.
On Good Friday a
sailor will add
a new bun to the collection.
126 years ago a
widowed mother,
expecting her sailor son home from
sea at Easter, saved
a Hot Cross
Bun for him. He never returned,
but for the rest of her life
she hung
up a bun every Good Friday.
Since she died the
custom has been
faithfully observed.
The Spitalfields
Life blog tells us:
"The ceremony of the Widow’s Buns is
celebrated today in Bow, as it has been each Good Friday for as long as anyone
can remember. Here is my account of last year’s event and if you get down there
by three o’ clock this afternoon, you can witness this cherished East End
ritual for yourself.
On Good Friday, what could be more
appropriate to the equivocal nature of the day than an event which involves both
celebration of Hot Cross Buns and the remembrance of the departed in a single
custom – such is the ceremony of the Widow’s Buns at Bow.
A net of Hot Cross Buns hangs above
the bar at The Widow’s Son in Bromley by Bow, and each year a sailor comes to
add another bun to the collection. And this year I was there to witness it for
myself, though – before you make any assumption based on your knowledge of my
passion for buns - I must clarify that no Hot Cross Buns are eaten in the
ceremony, they are purely for symbolic purposes. Left to dry out and gather dust
and hang in the net for eternity, London’s oldest buns exist as metaphors to
represent the passing years and talismans to bring good luck but, more than
this, they tell a story.
The Widow’s Son was built in 1848
upon the former site of an old widow’s cottage, so the tale goes. When her only
son left to be a sailor, she promised to bake him a Hot Cross Bun and keep it
for his return. But although he drowned at sea, the widow refused to give up
hope, preserving the bun upon his return and making a fresh one each year to add
to the collection. This annual tradition has been continued in the pub as a
remembrance of the widow and her son, and of the bond between all those on land
and sea, with sailors of the Royal Navy coming to place the bun in the net every
year.
Behind this custom lies the belief
that Hot Cross Buns baked on Good Friday will never decay, reflected in the
tradition of nailing a Hot Cross Bun to the wall so that the cross may bring
good luck to the household – though what appeals to me about the story of the
widow is the notion of baking as an act of faith, incarnating a mother’s hope
that her son lives. I interpret the widow’s persistence in making the bun each
year as a beautiful gesture, not of self-deception but of longing for
wish-fulfilment, manifesting her love for her son. So I especially like the
clever image upon the inn sign outside the Widow’s Son, illustrating an
apocryphal scene in the story when the son returns from the sea many years later
to discover a huge net of buns hanging behind the door, demonstrating that his
mother always expected him back.
When I arrived at the Widow’s Son, I
had the good fortune to meet Frederick Beckett who first came here for the
ceremony in 1958 when his brother Alan placed the Hot Cross Bun in the net, and
he had the treasured photo in his hand to show me. Frederick moved out from Bow
to Dagenham fifteen years ago, but he still comes back each year to visit the
Widow’s Son, one of many in this community and further afield who delight to
converge here on Good Friday for old times’ sake. Already, there was a tangible
sense of anticipation, with spirits uplifted by the sunshine and the flags hung
outside, ready to celebrate St George next day.
The landlady proudly showed me the
handsome fresh 2011 Hot Cross Bun, baked by Mr Bunn of Mr Bunn’s Bakery in
Chadwell Heath who always makes the special bun each year -” fabulous
buns!”declared Kathy, almost succumbing to a swoon, as he she held up her newest
sweetest darling that would shortly join its fellows in the net over the bar.
There were many more ancient buns, she explained, until a fire destroyed most of
them fifteen years ago, and those burnt ones in the net today are merely those
few which were salvaged by the firemen from the wreckage of the pub. Remarkably,
having opened their hearts to the emotional poetry of Hot Cross Buns, at the
Widow’s Son they even cherish those cinders which the rest of the world would
consign to a bin.
The effect of the beer and the
unseasonal warm temperatures upon a pub full of sailors and thirsty locals
rapidly induced a pervasive atmosphere of collective euphoria, heightened by a
soundtrack of pounding rock, and, in the thick of it, I was delighted to meet my
old pal Lenny Hamilton, the jewel thief. “I’m not here for the buns, I’m here
for the bums!” he confided to me with a sip of his Corvoisier and lemonade,
making a lewd gesture and breaking in to a wide grin of salacious enjoyment as
various Bow belles, in off-the-shoulder dresses, with flowing locks and wearing
festive corsages, came over enthusiastically to shower this legendary rascal
with kisses.
I stood beside Lenny as three o’
clock approached, enjoying the high-spirited gathering as the sailors came
together in front of the bar. The landlord handed over the Hot Cross Bun to
widespread applause and the sailors lifted up their smallest recruit. Then, with
a mighty cheer from the crowd and multiple camera flashes, the recruit placed
the bun in the net. Once this heroic task was accomplished, and the
landlady had removed the tinfoil covers from the dishes of food laid out upon
the billiard table, all the elements were in place for a knees-up to last the
rest of the day. As they like to say in Bromley by Bow, it was “Another year,
another Good Friday, another bun.”
A Widow’s Son of Bromley by
Bow
by Harold
Adshead
A widow had an only son,
The sea was his
concern,
His parting wish an Easter Bun
Be kept for his return.
But
when it came to Eastertide
No sailor came her way
To claim the bun she set
aside
Against the happy day.
They say the ship was lost at sea,
The son
came home no more
But still with humble piety
The widow kept her
store.
So year by year a humble bun
Was charm against despair,
A loving
task that once began
Became her livelong care.
The Widow’s Son is now an
inn
That stands upon the site
And signifies its origin
Each year by
Easter rite
The buns hang up for all to see,
A blackened mass above,
A
truly strange epitome
Of patient mother love."