In the olden days, in Northern Europe, people didn’t bathe much. There are legends about birthday and wedding day immersions – and those were it, till death invited the ritual cleansing of the corpse (typical backward tradition: care for the flesh after death with more attention than while it was growing).

But those legends are not accurate. The English weren’t as filthy as that. They bathed once a year, at the beginning of the year (late March), to start the new cycle with proper symbolism and auspicion.

Even that was ritualistic, though, and therefore unfair.

On the day before the Sunday after the equinox, the bath was filled. What began as hot clean relief evolved toward filthiness as the family sank their soils in it.

Preeminent in everything, the father’s body was the first immersed. Into the hot water sluiced all the dirt, sweat, semen and spit of his hard year.

Then oldest son. The water was still plenty warm, still translucent.

Next son, and youngest son, and by that time the temperature almost matched the room and the bath liquid was more like ichor.

It was Mother’s turn. She didn’t spend more time than it took to scrub and rinse in the tepid murk.

Both daughters dunked before, last and least, the grandmother. Better by then to have never bathed at all.

The ritual was so rank in reality that a community of rebellion arose. They settled (usurped) land in the south/central/western part of the home isle, explored the hot springs and river bathing, invented whirlpool arrangements. They even named the place: Bath.