SNAPSHOTS FROM THE DRIFFIELD SHOW, 2009
There are one-thousand and sixty-seven towns in England, most of which have a post-office, a chemist, a bus station, and so on. What they do not have, is the country’s largest one-day agricultural show – only one town does, and if you’re reading this, it is the town you are lucky enough to live in (or near.) And during the summer months, I am a resident myself, so come July 22nd I found myself venturing down the road to visit the Driffield Show.
Almost all of Driffield seemed to have turned out for the show, brought together in a way most towns can only dream of. Even the grumpiest, most belligerent youths had come out from under their hoods to witness the event – even the senior residents, some of whose ages can only be identified through carbon dating, had wheeled themselves out to see what was going on. The only people who weren’t there were those unlucky enough to be at work, such as my poor mum, trapped indoors, occasionally hearing a bit of music from the showground, drifting towards her on the wind. Here’s to you, mum.
As reported on every local news programme going, this was the biggest Driffield Show yet, with the fields being ‘filled to capacity’ for the first time ever. (Though I’m not sure how they calculated that, or kept a count of who was inside.) As I made my way along Beverley Road, I saw nothing but gridlock – I tried racing a bus, stuck in traffic with the rest of the cars, and I easily made it to the showground before it. Definitely a day to be on foot.
Once I’d queued up for my ticket (a surprisingly fast process), I was inside, being offered a free flapjack by ‘The Press.’ As I was representing a rival paper, I chose not to accept – and of course, you should always be suspicious of free food. I then headed straight for the ‘horticultural marquee,’ and observed a number of fascinating stalls, including one with a dazzling array of cactus plants. The stall also advertised ‘second hand cacti books for sale,’ another offer I chose to pass on.
One stall, however, clearly stood out from the rest, and sure enough they had been awarded the coveted ‘best in show’ trophy (for the second year running, in fact.) It was a model of a thatched cottage, complete with surrounding garden, created by trainees at ‘Mires Beck Nursery,’ a charity supporting those with learning difficulties. Apparently every one of their seventy ‘trainees’ had contributed a particular part of the display, and the process of creating it had taken six months, including growing their own reed for the thatch. Judges commended them for their ‘attention to detail,’ noticing that every single plant had been checked for dead leaves, a phenomenal effort which led to a well-deserved win
As I hovered around the stall, I heard one of the staff telling
telling a visitor there is ‘no such thing as a weed...just a plant that is in the wrong place.’ They nodded, but they didn’t look terribly convinced.
After visiting the vegetable tent, and marvelling at Mr. Stockdale’s champion carrot (presented on a smart black cloth that probably contributed to his success), I headed outside into the main throng of the show. Deciding to get a programme, I moved towards the main arena, and found a stand manned by Bridlington poetess Pam Scobie, who seemed to be having a very nice time distributing programmes and watching the events. ‘I have a brilliant view here,’ she commented, telling me she had got the job by answering an advertisement
advertisement on the wall of a local college, even though she wasn’t a pupil there.
Across from Pam was a tent owned by the Driffield Agricultural Society, who were raising awareness for a project known as the ‘Driffield Pavilion,’ an impressive looking structure of 13,500 square feet, which they were happy to tell me about. They were hoping to build the Pavilion entirely with local materials, including a ‘straw bale’ wall, finished with limestone (making it the only wall that can ‘breathe’) and offering three times better insulation than a regular wall. The representative also showed me a type of concrete made
made from hemp, which is to be known as ‘hempcrete.’ I wished them luck, and moved on. Watch this space for more news about the ‘Driffield Pavilion’ – their next step is to secure planning permission, after which they believe finding funding will be fairly easy.
The ‘hempcrete’ man (I forgot to ask his name) pointed me in the direction of the official ‘press tent,’ which turned out to be just a small tent with some plastic chairs inside. It was populated by a team of ‘proper journalists,’ who I decided not to tangle with, in case they stole any any
any of my witty observations. Moving on, I encountered a stall for the ‘Campaign to Protect Rural England,’ manned by Margaret Cockhill and Brian Witty. They were a delightful pair, and though they hadn’t seen any of the other exhibits yet, they were hoping to later in the afternoon. Brian informed me his name was ‘a proper East Riding name,’ and a very good one as well.
I then took some time to watch the show-jumping, and also (by request) to watch over a man’s coat and belongings, left on a chair while he went to look for his wife. While this was happening, I observed a surprising number of older ladies bringing pints out of the Rugby Club bar, and heard the following announcement, delivered with a textbook dry wit:
‘Will Mr. John Nash please report to the polo competition, beginning in five minutes, so he can provide the commentary.’ (a pause) ‘The polo competition is an interesting event, and is starting in five minutes...hopefully with a valid commentary.’
I then got myself a beef burger, and went to look at the cows – though immediately felt guilty, and tried to hide the burger from their sight. I followed this up with an ice cream (all at the Leader’s expense, I assure you), which I realised was giving off odd drips, carried by the wind onto the smart black jacket worn by the man to my left. I quickly moved away before he noticed – if you are reading this now, you have my most sincere apologies.
Consulting my map, I decided to head next for
for the ‘fencing competition,’ excited to see a demonstration of champion swordplay. On my way, another announcement came across the tannoy, informing us that a young man named Archie Pottage had gone missing ‘near the crèche,’ (a distinction they were probably keen to make.) A man walked past me, nodded to his wife, and said ‘good name.’ Fortunately Archie was found almost immediately, and returned to his rightful owners.
Arriving at the fencing contest, I discovered it was actually a contest to make a fence, rather than the other kind of fencing. This didn’t seem to sit too well with the crowd – comments from passersby included: ‘seems a funny thing to have a competition about,’ and ‘oh look, they’re taking it all down already,’ the latter not quite understanding what all the work was in aid of. Gentlemen were putting poles into the ground, and stringing wire between them, as I had the finer points explained to me by a steward.
Apparently, the contest was organised by Bradford-based ‘Fencing News,’ a magazine specifically for the fencing and contracting community, and judged by two professional fencing contractors. The criteria were ‘time, technique, and quality,’ and as one team had already finished (half an hour early) when I visited the enclosure, I think they were in with a good chance. The first prize was £1000, which had attracted teams from all over the country, including two bitter rivals from Devon. I had no idea this sort of thing was going on!
My final port of call was the ‘handicraft’ tent, to see some award-winning cakes, photographs, and associated creations. A note in the cake section advised me that castor sugar is the best choice for topping Victoria sponge, as it ‘stays better’ – and I noticed that all the winners had followed this advice. There’s a tip for anyone planning to enter next year! Personally, I think icing sugar should ‘stay’ better, and it certainly looks nicer – but hey, what do I know. Either way, the handicraft tent was vastly preferable to the ‘rural craft’ marquee, which had a distinct smell of sweaty gym socks.
I visited the wine and liquor stand next, where Wine Steward Mrs. Eayrs talked me through the selection. Apparently there was a brilliant turnout this year, with six or seven bottles per category compared to the usual two or three. Bottles with a ‘punt,’ a raised
raised bit at the base, are ideal for judging the colour of the booze – other criteria include ‘bouquet,’ ‘taste,’ whether or not they have a clean bottle, and (I’m serious) how alike the bottle looks to all the others. Mrs. Eayrs directed my attention to the liquor category, which had a range of odd bottle shapes, and mentioned that no guidance had been given on bottles for that category – something I’m sure they will rectify next year. for
After a quick visit to the tent with all the small animals, which was fascinating, I was worn out and decided to head home. But it was clear even then that the show was a huge success, with everyone going home with a big smile on their face, myself included. There was so much more going on than I had time or energy to comment on – I haven’t even mentioned the bright yellow sheep – but, now truly converted to country ways, I shall return next year determined to see and do more than ever.
