Otherwise known as ‘it’s village show time, folks!’…
When I was a child, our village show was great fun and enormous (I may have mentioned the time I won a piglet by guessing its weight, then my father not allowing me to take it home – some things can scar you for life). I blithely entered classes like the moss garden and the painting by someone under 10 without a care in the world. Oh, I vaguely remember muttering among the adults, and in one case a fight breaking out, but I think they may have drink taken.
Or maybe not… maybe they showed some perfect long shallots and had them spurned for some imperfect round ones.
Not that I’m taking anything that happened on Wednesday remotely personally, you understand. But let me just say that the two best vegetable gardeners in the whole area thought my shallots would win, and were quite shocked on discovering they had not. I did assure them in advance that they wouldn’t even be placed, because I’ve been here before but flatly refuse to give up. Personally, I’m ascribing it to anti-French bias. Aux barricades!
Shallots aside, it was a lovely show with some great produce even given that it has not been the easiest year for veg growing. Or growing fruit either, come to that, or shrubs, or flowers, especially dahlias (been a smasher for earwigs, though). Amazingly I won a second with the Unwanted Masquerading-as-a-Courgette-when-Young Yellow Marrow,
which is just visible in the middle there, diagonally down from the person explaining that he’d grown one but his was THIS big (though he could have been talking about the heaviest potato – it was a marrow-sized misshapen horror). OK, there were only three marrows in the class, but hey (last year there was a single entry in one class and it only got a second – not good enough for a first, apparently). Now, though, I have a problem – what do I do with the marrow? Apart from throw it away, that is? I’ve found a potential stuffing recipe involving cous-cous and chorizo, but this still sounds suspiciously like an ‘eat the stuffing and chuck the marrow in the bin’ experience.
I also managed to win a second with my ‘six named herbs in a jam jar’ (grown-up ousin of the moss garden of my childhood),
seen here during set up. And – astonishingly, given that they were a) purple and b) foreign, Italian things – also got a second for my Cosse Violette beans.
I did OK in produce (chutney, marmalade and blackberry whisky all placed), but the win which warmed my cockles most wasn’t my first-and-third double in the potted geraniums. It was my second in the french marigolds:
I’ve been so snobby about these in the past, and I know I’ve sung their praises on here before following my conversion, but they have been fab – and they are still going strong. I could have entered three bright yellow ones, three brick red ones, three deep red and bordered in yellow – the packs were called ‘Durango Mixed’, by the way, and I strongly recommend them. In the end I went for the marmalade orange, probably because it was drizzling when I picked them and they lit the place up. They still are – little smashers. They do stink, mind you…