Spring fayre

It was whilst we were sat under an assortment of umbrellas, in a crushed melee on a damp patch of grass outside the White Horse, that I happened to remark to the ladies on the bench, who had come all the way from Harrow and had another four hours to kill before their coach returned to collect them, that it never rains at fetes in Midsomer Murders. Quite so they agreed. At the time, we were eating lukewarm New Forest pasties, doubtless made with the remains of crushed ponies, with wooden knives and forks. Daughter number one was wearing the remains of a jar of piccalilli and a particularly unpleasant face. Son-in law wore the matching visage.

Well, what can you expect? Who in their right minds would bring a man to a country fayre? Particularly Downton Cuckoo Fayre which is the largest of its genre in the universe and packs the combined populations of three small European countries into one village street for a few hours once a year. These young folk have no stamina. Aged friend and I had been up since dawn and had managed to avoid all queues into the car-park prior to ensuring we saw EVERY stall available. Sensible old folk like us, having done a reccy and discovered that the pub had hospitably shut its toilets to the public and erected conveniences that were only convenient for stick insects, had identified alternative facilities in the church hall. We had also located something purporting to be coffee, bought more things than could be humanly carried, including a giant metal mouse, and transported said goods back to the car before meeting the others for lunch. You have to have a plan.

Plan B was the Georgian Fayre at Blandford on the bank holiday Monday. Not so well-thought out as it happened. First mistake of the day was in never giving a thought to the notion that daughter number one and offspring would pick today of all days to attempt entry into the Guinness Book of Records by actually turning up on time. I was just about to put the hoover round when they arrived. Mistake number two was in believing the weather forecast: I dressed in summer trousers and my nice new butterfly-encrusted (thin) top. First stop on arriving in the hinterland of north Dorset was the nearest charity shop to purchase a suspect fleece to help the fight against the biting wind. Like a lot of things in England’s green and pleasant, Blandford Georgian Fayre has gone downhill. A shabby sort of affair but, strangely, the small people seemed to enjoy it. However, it got colder and colder and we retreated back to the micro-climate of Poole to eat cheese sandwiches and change into winter clothes.

There was a brief hiatus as we looked out on seasonal black clouds and thought how nice it would be to have a little nap but, given that there were no grown men in the vicinity, we decided to press on to the donkey derby. A small detour was made to collect the even smaller dog who is my biggest (and only) fan. Small dog was delighted to see his family but half way down the road noticed me lurking in the back of the car. Pandemonium ensued until he was allowed to sit in the rear with me. At the donkey derby, which was particularly conspicuous by its absence of donkeys, small dog was entered into a competition with a diverse mixture of other far too friendly canines. Small dog is now not so small in some parts and repeated instructions had to be delivered to the grandchildren to retain a short lead. Sadly, this was not the competition for dog who can mount the highest number of other dogs. Small dog’s general enthusiasm, however, served him well as he came away with first prize and accompanying rosette for the waggiest tail. A brief interlude occurred wherein I was able to purchase huge quantities of other people’s junk from the Rotary Club stall; then back to the ring for best in show. The heavens opened, the submissive canine that our dog had his eyes glued on won the event and we hurried home to put the heating on.