Features June 2017
On the cult of the Kibbo Kift.
The English countryside in the mid-1920s, near Stonehenge perhaps, somewhere, ideally, with the afterglow of ancient strangeness about it: the first harbinger of the Kibbo Kift is the sound of distant music, the strumming of a lute, the singing of what White Fox, Kibbo Kift’s “Head Man,” John Hargrave, a compulsive manufacturer of hopefully evocative compound nouns, dubbed a waysong:
If you love the camp life,
Open air and sun,
Just fall in behind us ere the long trek’s done.
Swing along together, let your step be free
Hey ho! Hey ho! Kibbo Kift are we.
A group of young people come into view, hiking in wedge formations—dubbed...
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