Olly Mann: Gunpowder, treason and plot

Halloween has really taken off, hasn’t it? When I was a sprog, October 31 delivered little more than a carved pumpkin, a Simpsons special, and a speech from the headmistress extolling the hazards of strangers bearing sweeties. But these days? Themed products line the shelves, decorations adorn the high street, and TK Maxx has been flogging orange tat since July (“It’s Goth Christmas!” my punky friend explains to me).

My kids, having come of age alongside pumpkin spice lattes and "spooky" scented candles, expect to go trick-or-treating on the night, and to enjoy a packed week of anticipatory build-up over autumn half- term.

That includes our annual excursion to a pumpkin-picking patch we’ve discovered, replete with Dracula-themed adventure playground and promenading "bubble witch" (plaudits to the enterprising farmer who first turned his land over for this event— what impresses me most is the Instagram-baiting field of sunflowers he leaves to rot and die, so they look as bleak and Tim Burton-esque as absolutely possible).

But where does all this freaky festivity leave poor old Guy Fawkes? Bonfire Night on November 5 appears to have trended in the opposite direction to Halloween: my family hardly seem to notice it’s happening until we’re halfway up the dirt-path to the organised fireworks display, trudging through the mud with our head-torches on.

I’ll grant you, the anniversary itself—celebrating the torture and death of a wannabe terrorist, driven to attempted mass murder after his religion was repressed into submission by the state is... slightly old-fashioned. But I don’t understand why, when Halloween’s mild flirtation with the underworld has the power to give modern-day children such a titillating frisson, the very real danger of having their fingers burned off by sparklers seems to hold such little appeal.

I mean, I’ve had genuinely terrifying experiences on Bonfire Nights. Like that year a skyrocket launched horizontally at the crowd during my secondary school’s display, setting alight one hapless dad’s hat.

Or the time my father set fire to our fence, attempting to commandeer a cut-price Catherine wheel as we chewed on incinerated marshmallows. Or the year I lived in a London tower block, and some lads took to the roof and chucked firecrackers at pedestrians (which, to be fair, Guy Fawkes would probably have appreciated).

But here’s the thing: I’d argue that an under-the-radar, less fervent build-up to Bonfire Night actually makes the event much more enjoyable. Because, however diffident the child, however cold the night, however stingy the local council, big bangy bursts of colour lighting up the sky are, you know: impressive. Beautiful, even.

And at a time when virtually all forms of mass entertainment have dwindled in popularity to such an extent that I can say, with almost certainty, that you and I are not reading the same books, watching the same films or listening to the same records, how refreshing it is to share a spectacle that can still command everyone’s attention, offer a distinct sense of time and place, and that forces us to put our smartphones down (or, at least, switch the camera away from selfie mode, and towards the extraordinary event actually happening in front of us).

Fireworks are infinitely more pleasurable when there’s no hype or build-up beforehand. I know this first-hand because, back in the summer, I happened to chance upon a firework display, instead of booking it, queueing for it, and standing in the rain waiting for it to happen—and it was the best I’ve ever seen.

We were in Sitges, just down the coast from Barcelona, staying in an apartment that we’d chosen because it had an expansive balcony. Unbeknownst to us, we happened to have timed our visit to coincide with the Festa Major given in honour of Saint Bartholomew—the region’s largest, and most riotous, festival. Down on the streets (as we discovered on subsequent nights of our holiday) there was vibrant folk music; giant papier-mâché figures parading through alleyways; traditional Catalan costumes; and religious ceremonies. But, that first night of our holiday, relaxing on the balcony with a bottle of wine, we couldn’t see any of that. All we could see were the fireworks.

They started at 11pm, and lasted for around an hour. It was the most thrilling pyrotechnic blowout of my life, and all the better for being an utter surprise. Out on the beaches, no doubt, the bustling crowd was thronging and dancing and snogging and having a wonderful time. But, up on our balcony, the scale of the display could be more properly appreciated; the stunning synchronised explosions absolutely knocking me for six. I knew, as I knocked back the last of the Pinot Grigio, that I would remember that vista forever, as much for its serendipity as its spectacle.

I’m not too bothered that my kids have entirely forgotten what happens on November 5. An unplanned, unanticipated Bonfire Night still has the capacity to blow their socks off.

And sure, Halloween is fun, with its playful spells and potions and tricks. But lighting up the night with colour, noise and wonder? Now that’s what I call magic.