For show-stopping hay, giant parsnips and exotic animals there was only one place to be
THE GOOD news is that after two years of sodden earth, cancellations and heartbreak, the Tullamore Show actually happened. The bad news is that it took over an hour to travel the few kilometres from the town. “Should have brought me knittin’,” said a stoical countrywoman, “I could’ve done the back of a jumper in the time it took to get here”. She could have finished a lorry-load of them in the time it took to get out again. But the hours in between comprised a heart-warming love letter to rural Ireland.
With Midlands 103FM belting out the country classics and the indefatigable Carrie Acheson on the PA chiding careless parents, calling for an ambulance “to the back of the needlework tent”, keeping the crowd up to speed with Croke Park scores, and thanking folk “for all the comments but we only want the positive ones”, there was no way this event was ever going to be confused with the RDS.
Up at the podium, guest of honour Mairead McGuinness promised to keep her speech “short and sweet as an ass’s roar”. The platform party included three Fine Gael politicians – McGuinness, Charlie Flanagan and Olwyn Enright – a slew of clergy and an infant. As a gentle rain began to fall and the fourth speaker took the mic, someone whispered: “How many more?” And the answer came: “27”. But no sooner had the Rev Ruth Gill risen to thank the good Lord for all his blessings than the sun re-appeared, dappling the rolling hills of the Butterfield Estate and the crowd of over 60,000 scattered into the grassy alleys flanked by ingeniously named companies such as L’Ash go Leor (hurley manufacturers), as well as marquees housing four-foot parsnips, exotic animals and slurry scrapers.
Over in the cattle area, John Maher from Roscrea was massaging black show soap into his massive Belgian Blue and lovingly brushing each section until the hair glistened sleek and dark. In the dog-jumping arena, a startling array of hairy breeds raced around the obstacle course of jumps, tunnels, see-saws and slaloms. The MC gamely encouraged owners to have another go if the mutt made a hames of it while a dialadogwash.com – “They’ll love you for it” – van was parked up alongside in case of accident.
Opposite the main stand, an ass and trap, a combination not often spotted in modern Ireland, attracted nostalgic glances as Dunlavin Flyer, the ass, chomped on nachos off the grass. Nearby, a pure white cockatoo sat on a woman’s shoulder and a ferret suddenly stuck its ratty head out of Kayleigh Keegan’s T-shirt. Pot-bellied pigs truffled on their little patch, churning up the earth like fat, black rotovators; baby alpacas – looking like woolly hats had been pulled over their eyes – seemed bored, and an endless queue of women stood in line for the ladies.
In the cookery tent, as we eyed the prize-winning “six decorated queen cakes” section, Cork woman Margaret Burke reckoned that the shiny ball-bearing decorations were probably safe to eat. “They weren’t around in my day,” she said. “Of course all the talk now is of ‘cup-cakes’, it’s not just ‘buns’ anymore . . . ”
There probably wasn’t a sun-dried tomato bread section around then either. But she was loving the show and full of admiration for the effort exhibitors had taken to produce the stuff and transport it. For example, the winner of the delicate “decorated Victoria sandwich cake” was all the way from Ballymoney. The “decorated chocolate cake” winner was from Fermoy. Someone had nursed prize-winning garden flowers down the road from Dromhair.
The variety of exhibits was astonishing. Anyone whose idea of potatoes is limited to the supermarket variety labelled “white” should have been in Tullamore yesterday. Or who thinks than anyone can produce six perfect sods of machine-won turf. Or that show-stopping hay is just any old clump of dried grass. There are standards and Tullamore is here to uphold them if the weather will only let it.
The rain stayed off for the keenly anticipated events up on the main stage, namely the Bonny Baby, Young Miss Offaly and Young Mr Offaly, Glamorous Granny, Traditional Farmer and Best-Dressed Lady.
Frankly, this writer anticipated a nightmare. Young Miss Offaly? Do we have to? We probably shouldn’t. But in the event what we got was a shy little parade of girls in their best summer dresses, some hiding in their mother’s arm-pit. The title went to a little one in two pigtails and a long, twirly dress. The Glamorous Granny title went nowhere near defining the style, carriage and talents of 86-year-old Christina Manning, who also won prizes for her bread, scones and onions. But she accepted the sash and trophy with quiet pride. The “traditional farmer” category was scrapped due to lack of interest, so up next came the Best-Dressed Ladies, 17 of them, in a farm setting, among people dressed like farmers, with husbands and partners in T-shirts and anoraks. Yet here they were – apart from the Indian lady in the sari and the practical one in the boots – looking particularly bonkers in very high hats and heels. Angela Duggan, a gorgeous girl from Claremorris, won the sash and the €1,000 voucher.
The rain was still in abeyance as Carrie dispersed the last of the lost children and ticked off their parents. And as word came back of a long, long wait to get to the exit, a call went out for transport to get Carrie back to her helicopter ride home. Because she’s worth it.
