In August and early September there is a sequence of shows in the Yorkshire Dales. Near to where I live there was the Wensleydale Show in Leyburn, followed by the Reeth Show, the Muker Show and the Moorcock Show near Hawes. 

A field is transformed by big blue and white striped tents in which trestle tables display competitive entries of vegetables, jars of jam, cakes, knitting and everything else a village could ever produce.

Outside there are rows of old tractors on display; sheep dog trials; and the all important sheep judging. Very serious looking Dales farmers gather around wooden pens containing impeccably groomed sheep. A top prize can make the difference of tens of thousands of pounds to the price of a good tup.

The day before one of the shows I was walking through the village where it was to be held, and everyone was busy getting everything ready. One of the delights of living here is that people are happy to have a chat. A man was busy with a strimmer tidying up the grass verges and when he stopped for a break I said hello and asked about the forthcoming show.

He told me that he used to be the landlord of the village pub years ago and as the local publican he was expected to judge the entries of alcoholic produce such as homemade beers, wines and flavoured spirits. He said that when it came to the judging he asked for a bowl to spit the drinks out into and was told that “the judges normally just drink it”.

With fifty to sixty entries he said that by the end of the judging he was completely wobbly and that a previous judge, also the pub landlord, went home at midday after a morning’s judging for a lie down and fell fast asleep and so missed the rest of the show.

But there was more. He told me that the worst event to judge was the children’s fancy dress. In this event the local children parade in a line wearing all sorts of themed and outlandish costumes. But the children are not the ones the judges fear. It’s their mothers. Failing to select their child for a prize can result in grudges that can last for generations.

Judging of cakes can also lead to intergenerational trauma. I chatted with an old Dales sheep farmer who must have been in his late eighties. He told me that when he was a lad his mother entered a Swiss Roll in the show, and it didn’t win a prize because she was told that she hadn’t cut the ends of the roll off. He said that his mother never forgot the humiliation and would mention it every time she baked.

It's all part of the fun and tradition though, and no one would have it any other way. A farmer who was working hard putting up the tents told me “We like to make it the way it’s always been”.

Have you ever entered anything into a village show and has it affected you for life?

Rowan on the Moor

A Moodscope member