County Show

Every September, for a hundred years now, immense crowds of people have gathered for the Newbury Show.  It takes place somewhere at the crossroads of agriculture, commerce, competition and "a good day out."

It's the sort of place where you can buy your new tractor, display your prize sheep, stock up on homemade jam and pick out a new shooting jacket.  If your interests don't lean toward the agricultural, you can just amble around -- like most of the folk -- and take in the sights.  There is a bit of something for anyone, and a lot of food and drink for everyone.

I am always struck by the democratic qualities of "the Show."  Girls with punky pink hair and boys in corduroy stand side by side looking at chickens.  The old and young, rich and poor, farmers and white collar types all jostle together.  I walk around constantly thinking, "Where did these people come from?"  It makes me realize what well-worn grooves we must all follow, despite sharing a corner of Berkshire together.

Although people-watching isn't part of the official programme of events, it is my favorite part.  This teenage mother and her pink infant have the same peachy plumpness, while this man wears his history on his skin in a very literal fashion.  (If you double-click on the picture, you can read some of the details.)

What do you suppose he does for a living?

I'm also fascinated by the enormous variety of hobbies and interests on display at the Show. Don't you find people endlessly strange and wonderful? I spoke to this woman, at some length, about her passion for wool and spinning. She told me, ever so proudly, that the local chapter of spinners has 110 members. Who knew? One of her comrades is a skein-collector. She is attempting to spin the wool from every breed of sheep, no matter how rare, in the United Kingdom.

This father and son are competitive pole-climbers. (Do loggers do this for fun? I'm not sure how else you would get involved in this "sport.") The father, who is first in his age-class, bested his son in this particular race. It was impressive to watch them run, in a strangely crab-like fashion, up these towering poles.

There are races of all kinds at the County Show. 

Here, the young farriers are pounding away at their anvils.  Competitive horse-shoe shaping and shodding, I think.

This man was driving his llama through an obstacle course.  I wonder where you train for that sort of thing?

Have you ever seen a ferret race?  This man is showing off his first-prize ferret, both of them flush with recent victory.  The handlers spray their ferrets with water to cool them down before they race. 

I'm not sure if that step is always necessary, but it was gloriously hot on this September day.  The summer weather always seems to come just when we've given up on it.

I don't know if it is the heat, or the crowds, or full tummies, or so much walking around, but there is something utterly exhausting about being at the Show all day.  I wonder how many children sack out, like these piglets, on the way home?

Family Life

"Felicity in family matters is as rare as hen's teeth,"

I once read.

I tend to think of myself as the keeper

 of the family happiness,

but is that a thankless task,

or even possible?

I am like the self-appointed shepherd

of a small, ornery flock

who only want

 to be left alone

to go their own way.

My idea of a blissful family day is a pub lunch,

all of us together, 

followed by a long walk afterwards.

Only rarely is this wish indulged,

because one person doesn't like to eat out

and the other doesn't like to walk

and the third wants to listen to a radio programme

instead.

Let's go to Combe Gibbet, I said.

High upon Combe Down

is a long chalk pathway

with incredible views

of Berkshire and Hampshire,

and maybe even Oxfordshire.

I remember reading about Combe

in  A Genius in the Family.

In her memoir about

the intense love and rivalry between sisters

Hilary du Pré says

that her famous sister, Jacqueline

described Combe as "the top of the world."

Jacqueline du Pré took her husband

Daniel Barenboim

up to the Combe Gibbet.

She loved it; he loathed it.

It is a wild, beautiful place

but a little haunted.

This is a two-person gibbet, apparently.

George Broomham and Dorothy Newman

were hung in this place in 1676.

For crimes against family: adultery, which led to murder.

I wonder if the sky looked as ominous

on that day.

The day was full of clouds and intense, muted sunlight.

Against this backdrop,

even the haystacks look a bit menacing,

and lonely, too.

And yet, unexpectedly,

the sun will sweep across

the landscape.

Family life is like that, too.

 Here we go

over the stiles,

one after another.

Sometimes with a helping hand,

sometimes entirely alone.

These oak trees have endured

who knows what.

They seem to have grown together.

I think that can happen in marriage, too

if you are fortunate.

If there is anything that makes me happier

than seeing my children happy, together

I can't think what it might be.

Pub Lunch/Shadow Shot Sunday

The pub:

hub of socializing

cherished by the English

for its rituals

beer and idle chat

good grub

a smoke (no more)

but still, the shadowy scent

soaked into wooden beams
and trod-upon tiles

Sunday lunch

in Oxfordshire

nothing to see but sheep

on the hillside

blessed sunshine

hot enough

to justify umbrellas

(but not the rainy day kind)

strong enough

to create shadows

on nearly the longest day

of the year

the sun and clouds

play

throwing down shadows

over this country quilt

the landscape looks so empty

but besides the sheep

there are two of us

with love to my Father

on Father's Day

xx

I'm a rogue (or is it off-road?) blogger on Shadow Shot Sunday

sponsored by Hey Harriet

May Day Magic

Although I am a self-proclaimed city girl, even I do succumb to the beauties of nature around this time of year.


We have had a miserably wet week so far, but today the clouds parted long enough to let my Walking Partner and I get in a 10 miler. You can see our route if you wish -- from Marlston to Bucklebury to Stanford Dingley to Yattendon to Frilsham and then back to Marlston -- but you will just have to imagine the hills, the forest, the dappled light, the looming dark clouds, and the narrow country roads. There was mud, yes, but at least it was confined to the road and not dripping down our necks!


The cherry and apple trees must be gorging on all of the cold spring rain, because the trees look full to bursting with pink and white blossoms. Blossom time is so ephemeral -- for some trees, only 10 days or so -- and I want to soak up the sight! If only it would last . . .


My WP is highly attuned to the natural world, and as we walk she points out cowslips, a swooping red kite, tiny violets, the petals of a wild strawberry plant, and all of the animal babies -- calves, lambs, and piglets -- who have just staggered into the world. Much of our route is heavily forested, and the bluebells seem to be in every shaded spot. They are enchanting -- just as the snowdrops were before them. If you want to really see some of the glories of an English spring, visit "A Walk in the Bluebells."


I have been fretting a lot about the environment, and trying to compose a post about issues which frighten and confuse me, but today I just want to acknowledge that pagan urge to celebrate fecundity . . . and beauty of the earth renewing itself.