Show season is upon us and as always, I’ll dispense with the clichés ... there, that took a second.

What interests me with agricultural shows is the spectrum seen as one travels from regional gigs towards the big cities, that gentle change in dynamic of visitors, exhibitors and the overall feel of the event.

The effort farmers put into rearing, preparing and showing livestock into which a great deal of breeding strategy has been placed (as well as expense) will always shine, and this publication’s audience needs no lesson in the significant business success that can follow a ribbon or two won at the big events.

And at the smaller ones, the kids cut their teeth.

Finley floats my boat — as in the school — where they clean up the Finley Show (against some of the big boys, mind) and then travel both riverside states punching above their weight to dizzying heights.

This year, take the time to chat with students from any of the school teams, and if you’re a seasoned farmer, find the team’s nervous townie who fears a hoof or halter, and give them a chug on the arm and a bit of a word.

I’ve seen first-hand the difference it makes.

As a city kid, I was grateful that I had less pocket money than my friends and could only afford one ride and two show bags, because I could then peel away from the gang with their greasy food and fairy floss getting vomited from the top of The Zipper, and do my own thing.

I wandered into the flower exhibitions. They floored me for their perfection, and although I had been a keen child-gardener, the Antirrhinum and Ranunculus with their great height and singular display instead of crammed bunches, made me lift my game at home.

I even annexed mother’s vegetable patch.

And, as an ‘in-joke’ for the flower growers here, I asked mother: “What’s a peony?” to which she replied: “Don’t even think about it.”

But the smaller the show, the richer the charm.

At Bushy Park in Tasmania I watched a relatively new sport of Horseback Archery (if you count Genghis Kahn as relatively new) where I knew one of the riders, then climbed a transportable rock-climbing wall where I knew the belayer, and even exhibited one of our own horses, a mighty Friesian named Sherlock, who wowed the one-year-old daughter of the state’s opposition leader, who I also knew.

But the micro-familiarity came at the Saddleworth Show many years before when I stayed with the most countrified hospitable couple in Roger and Bev, who sent me on my way with their three daughters (if I must, I say) and their dog to the showgrounds.

Not only did we bring home first and second prize for Bev who entered a few daffodils and hyacinths from the garden (neat envelopes with $2 inside), but their golden retriever retrieved some gold by way of simply being him (four bucks).

And I opened the Pandora’s box of what could be if relaid my path away from the concrete and toward the paddock.

I hope this early experience is still the pull towards farming life for others as it was for me, and more than just dipping dippy dogs on bales of hay, a crispy beer shouted by the richest of the three girls, or a golden retriever who gave up and walked himself home.

A small fire had been lit during these formative years at either end of the ag show spectrum, where the people off the land remained the biggest mystery: why do they do it?

I walked the three sisters home, rambling behind them in the dust and setting sun, a crush on the eldest one never sated under the glare of Roger. She became a lawyer, and I dodged a bullet.

I had wanted to stay at the showgrounds, but it was a one-day event and the town was falling quiet once more, like the end of an opening scene in a Thomas Hardy pastoral (without all the death and misery).

We stumbled inside, sun-struck teenagers ready to sleep.

Bev spoke.

“Where’s the dog?”

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Saturday, 1st June 2024

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