I spent a large portion of my childhood growing up in the Home Counties. And it’s where my family still live, in a village satisfied with not one, but two different names. It’s that kind of place. So this weekend, when all the cool kids were on the streets of Notting Hill eating jerk chicken and dancing with policemen, I was at a Country Fayre back in my home town, watching the judging of, amongst other categories, best runner bean, best floral arrangement, and best root tuber. Because that is how I roll.
But my favourite category, and the one the results of which I awaited with baited breath, was Best English Countryside (On A Plate). For those of you who aren’t aware, The English Countryside (On A Plate) is, basically, Home Counties Bonsai – the arrangement of flowers, plants, pinecones, earth and pebbles on a (dinner) plate in an aesthetically pleasing fashion so as to convey the spirit of the English countryside. And if you weren’t aware, I wouldn’t be at all surprised, since a Google search for the term revealed a grand total of zero results.
But I love it. I have no idea at all how many bottles of Baileys the Country Fayre Committee had put away when they came up with The English Countryside (On A Plate), but it’s a brilliant example of exactly why I love the Home Counties, and village fetes in particular. The V&A run an ironic Village Fete every year, and while it’s a fond tribute to the tradition, it can’t compare with the strangeness of the genuine article. Whether it’s White Elephant stalls or Bat-a-Rat games, coconut shies or cream teas, I love every traditional aspect of them.
Which was, perhaps, why I was so shocked to discover the existence of a racket in the floral/produce competition world. It turned out that the majority of the categories had been won by what can only be described as a Country Fayre hustler. As I commiserated with the disgruntled losers of the soft fruit category over a cream tea, they told me in hushed tones how the man in question went from village to village, entering his prize onions or marrows or roses or whatever into competitions, almost always sweeping the board in each category.
There he is, said the man who came second in best tomato, nodding in the direction of a neighbouring table. Look at him, gloating away like that, said third in plum-and-damson.
I looked across, expecting to see some kind of Terry Thomas-like figure, his table covered in rosettes, cackling to himself and twirling his moustache. But there was just some old guy who looked a bit like Bill Oddie, calmly dolloping cream onto a scone. Frankly, that made it all the more insidious.
But despite the pall of evil that has been cast over the entire tradition of Country Fayres by this Home Counties huckster, the devil’s gardener himself, the good news is that the first prize for The English Countryside (On A Plate) eluded his nefarious grasp. That honour went to plucky young Betsy Bell, age 8. Let us not forget her example. For as long as Betsy keeps adding her own unique combination of lichen, moss, daisies and oak leaves and twigs to bone china, there is hope, England.
There is hope.
