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Village shows aren't about taking part, they're about winning

'I quickly focused on the “Animal Made from a Vegetable” category as being about my level' - John Lawrence
'I quickly focused on the “Animal Made from a Vegetable” category as being about my level' - John Lawrence

‘It should have been last week,” I sigh, standing in the lane chatting with one neighbour while another leans over her wall. The “it” we’re discussing is arguably the social highlight of a not inconsiderable annual village schedule: the Flower and Produce Show.

As ruby red petals flutter to the floor, gathering on the gravel, I murmur forlornly: “Last week my roses were perfect, the dahlias at their best, and as for my courgettes…”

Apparently I’ve stumbled upon one of the best-known clichés of village shows. “Everyone says that,” says my neighbour, Nick, resident since 1975.

When I moved to a village in east Devon during the second lockdown I thought it would be to spend as much time out of the rat race as possible.

As it is, I’ve not only ended up juggling a weekly commute back to London for work, but a country social life that would have Samuel Johnson hurrying back to the capital for some R&R.

I’m still recovering from the four-day extravaganza that was the Jubilee. Not to mention the Oak Apple Day parade the week before that. Living in a small cottage with an even smaller garden, throwing my limited produce into the show ring hadn’t crossed my mind. I imagined this was an occasion for more experienced hands.

And then my neighbour asked if I was entering. It turned out that the categories, known as classes, were extensive and not all requiring Jill Archer levels of skill; I quickly focused on the “Animal Made from a Vegetable” category as being about my level.

Boudicca entered courgettes into the vegetable competition - John Lawrence
Boudicca entered courgettes into the vegetable competition - John Lawrence

But before I knew it I was ticking off five categories in which I thought I could compete – if not with a great chance of a prize, then at least without shame.

On top of courgettes (one very large and unwieldy plant), dahlias (my own tuber-grown), herbs (my four finest stems from the garden in a vase) and roses (one bush that prettily adorns the cottage front, check), I also fancied my chances baking a courgette and lemon drizzle cake and of course the vegetable animal (a popular category for sure).

A sub-40-year-old friend in the village had already tested her courgette and lemon drizzle out on us over Sunday lunch. Delicious. I figured she had it in the bag, but there was no reason I couldn’t take part.

And so I made my 25p per class payments, dropped off in an envelope at the village hall. My boyfriend, gently cajoled into entering the Men Only Cake category (a compulsory Victoria sponge), was also surprisingly open to the idea of entering a limerick on the theme of water; a subject close to villagers’ hearts given most of us are off the grid and also on a flash-flood plain. Not currently a problem.

On the morning of the show everything had to be delivered promptly to the village hall by 10am.

At 9.30am I was still doing battle with a knife and a large home-grown courgette that I was trying to fashion into a killer whale. My roses were all dead. And I had only two decently sized courgettes with flowers still attached.

Harry, meanwhile, was copying out his limerick and making the bizarre choice, latterly conceded, to finish off his Victoria sponge with an icing sugar P (after the name of the village). And off we tottered down the lane.

If you are well-versed in village shows then you’d have been better prepared than I was. My sum total of experience derives from Steve Coogan’s Alan Partridge judging the Swaffham Country Fayre vegetable competition.

'All around the country, shows like this are taking place' - John Lawrence
'All around the country, shows like this are taking place' - John Lawrence

All around the country, shows like this are taking place. Some, such as that in Taunton, are on a grand scale, but many are in small villages like ours, which has a parish population of around 500.

Our show goes back to the 1920s. A typical agenda from 1950 saw the Viscountess of Sidmouth officiate at the opening. There were skittles, tug of war and folk dancing. At 4.30pm there was an ankle competition, best left to the imagination.

“It was also social, but with a competitive edge,” says Nick, my font of all local knowledge. “An opportunity to improve skills, and by being competitive become stronger and better veg and flower growers.”

To this day, cups are handed out to those who win the most “prize money” (usually in the region of £2.50 per class). Afterwards there’s an auction of the produce that people choose to leave behind.

Regulars still talk of the occasion when a jar of marmalade made by a village centenarian and orange preserve legend raised more than £100.

This year the youngest competitor is a two-year-old who has fashioned a snake from toilet rolls (in the Under-Fives Snake Made From Recycled Material class, obviously). The oldest is an octogenarian who has entered gently nurtured veg in multiple classes.

The show gives children a sense of where their vegetables come from, which is laudable; and neighbours the chance to see their fuchsias triumph over those from over the fence, which is less so.

The show’s chairwoman, Jane, first entered the village show here when she was five years old; a bunch of wildflowers in a jam jar (“back in the day when we were allowed to pick them!”), a miniature garden on a tray and a papier mâché dish. While still a schoolgirl she won the prestigious WI Cup, much to the surprise of the chairman at the time.

'The show gives children a sense of where their vegetables come from, which is laudable' - John Lawrence
'The show gives children a sense of where their vegetables come from, which is laudable' - John Lawrence

The identity of today’s judges is shrouded in mystery, but Jane assures me they are all local. They do not enter themselves and are all knowledgeable in their own field (arts, flower arranging, baking etc).

At 2.30pm I return eagerly to see what they made of my entries. “Well done!” someone says before I’ve even popped my £1 entry fee into the Tupperware box at the entrance to the village hall.

Could it be true? My orca? Alas, no. There is but a Third Prize stamp on its entry card. And there were only two other entrants. Later, I learn that I was beaten in this class by an eight-year-old.

The village hall is cacophonous. A maze of rectangular tables groans with villagers’ best efforts. After a two-year hiatus because of coronavirus the show has exploded back into life. The central island of tables is a meadow of flowers. I drink in the sight and smell the arrangements. I wade through a profusion of sweet peas, cosmos, agapanthus, hydrangeas and the rest. The edges of the room are a vegetable border, while on the walls and other tables there are original artworks and crafts, such as needlecraft, woodwork, knitting and crochet.

I had been warned to expect neighbours coming to blows over onions. However I am unprepared for my own sense of injustice when I find my courgettes, herbs and dahlias remain uncomplimented by a prize stamp.

It’s not clear what the criteria are for prizes. There are enough accolades on produce presented on paper plates for me think that style has not been a major deciding factor.

“Things being the same seems to be a thing,” whispers my sub-40 friend. Her eggs haven’t won. “I’ve heard they were thought to be good – but not the same as each other.” We both glance sideways at her jolly, motley assortment of eggs; all whites, pale greys and pinks. Good luck finding those at Tesco.

Veteran showfolk tell me that’s not always the case. Sometimes a judge has a taste for the asymmetric. It all seems in the lap of the gods.

But then there, bursting with zing, is my unpractised courgette and lemon drizzle cake – sporting a First Prize stamp! With 10 other entrants in the class, the thrill is intoxicating. I’m still floating when a mole on the inside tells me that the judge was apparently impressed by how appealing it looked. The words “full of flavour” were uttered.

Boudicca won first-place for her courgette and lemon cake - John Lawrence
Boudicca won first-place for her courgette and lemon cake - John Lawrence

And what of Harry’s entries? It was better luck next year for his sponge. The P apparently baffled the judge, and it should have been caster sugar, not icing: anyway, thanks Delia.

In a turn-up for the literary books, though, Harry picked up a respectable Second in the also hotly contested ­Limerick category.

Cups are handed out. Nick, who has the required pedigree, announces the winners. Many of the cups are dedicated to the names of villagers past and present. It’s at this point I feel like I’ve joined a masonic lodge. Suddenly my tiny collection of prized stamped entry cards feels meagre. How do I get my hands on one of the little metal goblets, and the boxes of Maltesers that appear to go with?

There are mutterings as one villager makes a clean sweep of the veg classes for yet another year running. Tears as another is recognised for her long devotion to arts and crafts.

And before you can shake a carrot the whole scene dissolves. Prized produce is whisked home.

Some flowers remain, but with precious vases removed, to be auctioned off for charity along with donated preserves and jams. A cabbage goes for £6. Tame compared with previous years, I’m told. Apparently a single ill-timed chin scratch can clear you out.

I donate my cake. Regret it, and buy it back, along with an arrangement of asters, for £10; I’ve not got my wallet so borrow from my neighbour. He knows I’ll pay him back, because he also knows where I live. Villages are good like that.

I’m already reading up on jam-­making. Because next year I’m coming back bigger, better – and perhaps a little more uniform in the vegetable area. It could take two or 20 years, but I promise myself that one day I’ll be leave the Village Hall with a cup.

Seven days later, my roses are back in bloom. I was wrong after all. It should have been next week.