The Great British Village Show

The time of year has hastily come around again for the season of the great British village show.

The dampening weather and fields that bog even under the feather weight foot of a sheep’s hoof have forced many a county show and countryside extravaganza to be cancelled.
Whilst some may grumble at the rising costs of entry fees and the lack of enticing eateries in the show grounds (given that they are usually situated in the middle of nature’s larder), local county shows encouragingly invite people that are not so use to being in the great outdoors to sample a slice of the life that us country-files find so addictive.

Not as well publicised as the county shows but evidently more charming, the village show tend to go discreetly undetected other than to those who live in the surrounding area.
Although growing in popularity and swelling in size, our nearest village show still manages to maintain the quaint cottage like charm it must have had when it was first arranged 155 years ago.

Many modern attractions have forced themselves onto the show in more recent years due to the increasingly popular affinity young people have with being hurled round some tummy upsetting, only just legally allowed fairground rides. I cannot deny I was not one of these thrill seeking human beings myself, usually after a morning flogging my poor pony to death in the shows own mini version of badminton.

These days I am more likely to be found browsing the craft and produce tents, keeping a keen eye on the way people meticulously display their exceedingly eye wateringly large vegetables and their strategically placed fruit.

I have not always been this fiercely competitive, on horseback, or at the school sports days when my father use to tell me that nobody remembers second place, I was always content knowing the fact that I had done my best.  It all changed the day I nonchalantly entered a Victoria sponge in one of the baking classes.  The self- gratification I received from seeing the highly prized red first card under my little ol’ cake was unbelievable, who would have thought that a seemingly innocent fluffy sponge would trigger in me a killer eagerness to win?

Although the many women behind the many prize winning fruitcakes and sausage rolls have a predisposition to want to win at all costs and are not afraid to show it, the real hard core, cut throat competitors are the ostensibly, silent types ( usually older men ) who come and arrange their –ahem, enormities under the cover of darkness. This, I thought is where the flouncy happy – go – lucky competitor leaves and the manically deranged, obsessive competitor comes in.

With the enlisted help of my mum (due to a husband being whisked away to the south of France), we took the preened and pampered vegetables to the show ground the night before. This enabled the first time vegetable competition entering person like myself to take a swift walk through the un – guarded trestle tables and have a shifty glance at the other competitors entries and look how best to display my own arrangement of vegetables.

Porcelain plates, frilly doilies and artistically arranged specimens started to set me off in an uncontrollable fit of hysteria, fortunately only recognisable through my penetrating eyes. Upon seeing my strained gaze and ridged body pose, the nurturing instinct in my mum kicked in as she took the clammy vegetables from my sweaty palms and quietly exhibited my wares in her own poetic fashion.

After all the stress and killer vegetable themed nightmares from the evening before, I surprised myself at the lack of the unbearable tension that I had highly anticipated to suffer from, even my cheeks had regained their recognisable rosiness. Proudly flashing my exhibitor’s badge at the car park attendant and receiving my free entry in, the good – feel energy that was being emitted from the hundreds of happy visitors, great grandparents and children alike, was intoxicating.

Although there were still one or two that wouldn’t let this humble feeling of exuberance penetrate their thick competitively poisoned skin, most found it impossible not to praise and congratulate on the excellence of their entries. Friendly growing tips were being shared, winning recipes were being divulged and the slandered of produce was being highly commended by all kinds of members of the public. It now seemed irrelevant whether your entries were placed or not, the sense of enthusiasm that you received from total strangers was worth more than a winning rosette.

Thinking that my husband would be wanting to share some of this village love, I rang him, only to discover that he and his friends were sharing some of their own type of village love in a french way with 9 bottles of rose wine - it surprises me that they were capable of any form of love after drinking that.

Strawberry and rose petal jam

1kg strawberries – tops off and halved
6 tbsp. lemon juice
900g jam sugar
One large handful of scented rose petals, white heels removed and tied in a small muslin bag
2- 3 drops rose water

Put a saucer in your freezer.
Place your strawberries, lemon juice, rose water and rose petal bag into a large pan with a good solid bottom. Cook on a medium heat for about 10 minutes, when the berries have started to break down.
Add the sugar, and stir constantly until the sugar has dissolved. Turn the heat up and bring the mixture to the boil, cook for a further 15 minutes then get your saucer out of the freezer so you can test to see if your jam is set. Place a teaspoonful on the cold plate and leave it for a minute or two to see if it forms a soft jacket of skin, then using your smallest finger push the jam up to see if it forms wrinkles, if it does it has set and is ready to decant into sterilised jars, if not then return the plate back to the freezer and keep testing at five minute intervals.
Once set remove the muslin bag of rose petals and decant into sterilised jars.