Hawkesbury Life - Debbie Young's Writing Life

Hawkesbury Show and Tell

Posted on August 8, 2012July 18, 2016 by Debbie Young

photo of the field on Hawkesbury Show Day — Can we have weather like this, please?

Last night I had a terrible nightmare. I was in the marquee at the Hawkesbury Horticultural Show when I realised I’d forgotten to put in any entries. There I was in a tent full of exhibits and none of them bore my exhibitor number.

Speaking as a past prize winner, this dilemma doesn’t bear thinking about. Okay, so most of my prizes have been in dubious categories such as the odd-shaped vegetable (it was a tomato – don’t ask!) Our hen’s egg entry was also interesting. In our first year of poultry keeping, we assumed that eggs were judged only on size and colour. For weeks we saved our hens’ biggest and brownest. We didn’t realise they’d be cracking them open. Six week old eggs and a hot show tent are not a good combination.

Bad eggs aside, our village show – one of the oldest of its kind in the country – demonstrates our community at its best, bringing together old and young alike.

And I mean at its best. Judges of unparalleled skill and experience ensure the high quality is maintained. A few years ago, when I was on the Show Committee, I attended a meeting at which the onion judge was present. He’d travelled from afar to share his knowledge. He produced from his pocket a set of silver rings, specifically made to check the size of onions. They’d been passed to him from his father. As he was well into retirement, I reckon the rings had been in use for nearly a century. We were in awe.

But don’t let the judges’ high standards put you off submitting an entry. The ultimate prize is not the individual’s red rosette, but one we can all share: a tent full of produce and crafts, representing just about everyone in the village. So not like my nightmare at all, then.

Happy Show Day, everyone!

Red rosette for first prize winners at Haweskbury Horticultural Show — A prize day out for all the family

Hawkesbury Horticultural Show takes place on the last Saturday in August in the Cotswold village of Hawkesbury Upton, Gloucestershire. For more information, visit the Show’s official website.

And in case you want to know more about the poultry-keeping, here’s a post about how we ended up Recharging Battery Chickens.

This post was originally written for the Hawkesbury Parish News (August 2012).

Travel

The Secret World of Hawkesbury Upton

Posted on July 11, 2012March 9, 2013 by Debbie Young

As I was running along the “Yellow Brick Road” in the first ever Hawkesbury 5K last month, the lady next to me gasped with surprise.

“But it’s lovely up here!” she said, as wistful as Alice peering through the tiny door into Wonderland’s gardens.

“You should see it on a sunny day,” I told her proudly, though not expecting one any time soon. “Then you would see both Severn Bridges.”

When she looked as pleased as if I’d given her the password to a secret society, I realised that many people living nearby never discover our fabulous views, unless they are (dog)walkers or runners. They might recognise the village name from a roadsign, but if they’ve never taken that road, they have no idea what it’s like.

If I hadn’t got lost 21 years ago, this could have applied to me. While househunting between Bristol and Chipping Sodbury, we took the wrong turning for the M4. As we headed north on the A46, we spotted a signpost to the left indicating “Hawkesbury Upton”. We’d never heard of it.

“That’s a pretty name,” I remarked. “That would look good on a change of address card.”

We turned left. We had no estate agents’ fliers for the village (there was no online searching in those days), but we thought we might spot some “For Sale” signs. And we did: outside a small stone cottage on France Lane.

“That would do us,” said my husband. “Let’s go and take a look.”

We did, and we bought it, and the rest is history. And that is the story of how – neither a runner nor a walker in those days – I discovered the secret world of Hawkesbury Upton. The road sign is right – “Hawkesbury Upton: You’ll never leave.” But that’s fine by me.

This article was originally written for the Hawkesbury Parish News, July 2012.

If you enjoyed this post – or if indeed you like road signs – you might like this: Rage Against the Road Signs

Family, Personal life

Post Royal Jubilee (Red, White and) Blues

Posted on June 16, 2012July 18, 2016 by Debbie Young

Two weeks on from the Royal Jubilee celebrations, and I can’t quite bring myself to turn off the red, white and blue fairy lights outside my house, nor to take down the bunting. I don’t want to lose that carefree sense of fun that took over the nation’s lives, for all but the most hardened Republicans.

Cards on the table: I’m not especially a Royalist, but I do have a profound admiration for those Royals who work hard and tirelessly to do their duty for the country. I certainly wouldn’t want to swap places with the Queen. During the Jubilee period, it’s been a treat to see our national flag restored to its proper use of celebrating our national unity, rather than indicating right-wing tendencies or National Front affiliations. I hung the biggest flag I could find from my bedroom window. (“Are you doing that just to irritate Daddy?” asked my nine-year-old daughter, too perceptive for her own good of my husband’s revolutionary tendencies.)

Admittedly, the weekend of celebrations was not quite what I expected it to be. First of all, the very British but very uncooperative weather meant I didn’t get the chance to wear the long, light cotton sundress that I’d bought for the occasion in the colours of the flag. Secondly, our village decided to have a party in the recreation ground, rather than the street. To my mind, you can’t beat a street party. But we did have a jolly good time.

my daughter and her friend at the village party — Laura and friend, snapped on the rec by my friend. They look like they’ve just travelled back in time

My best memories will be:

– laughing at the egg-catching competition on the rec (we were having so much fun that we didn’t realise the showers had turned into torrents until it was finished)

– snuggling under a blanket in front of a log fire with my daughter Laura, slightly steaming as we dried off after said village party, as we watched the Royal Flotilla (also in pouring rain)

– a frisson of pleasure watching the Queen and her inner circle start jigging up and down to the sounds of the Sailors’ Hornpipe played by the floating Royal Philharmonic Orchestra

Laura at the beacon bonfire — Ablaze with patriotism, Laura at the Beacon bonfire, adorned by IKEA battery-powered fairy lights

– being astonished by the colour and imagination of the Jubilee-themed Flower Festival at the local church

– trekking up to our village’s Beacon Bonfire and spotting the next one at Uley, 10 miles or so away

After all, the whole point of a Beacon Bonfire is to be seen from afar, and send a kind of Mexican wave of bonfires across the length and breadth of the nation. And for a moment there, the nation felt just like a close-knit village. It was a fabulous feeling, and I really hope we don’t have to wait another 60 years to feel that way again. God Save The Queen!

If you like the British Royal Family, you might like these posts:

Saying It With Trees

Remembering the Silver Jubilee

A taste of the Jubilee Flower Festival at St Mary’s Church, Hawkesbury Upton

flower arrangements on the alter — Looking up to the altar

floral representation of the annointing of the Queen — Annointing the new Queen

floral arrangement representing Prince Philip — The Lords declare their loyalty to the Queen

Prince Philip – in flowers

flower arrangement depicting coronation carriage — The Queen’s coronation carriage

floral arrangement representing the Yeomen of the Guard — My favourite: the Yeomen of the Guard (Beefeaters)

Footnote: I’ve just heard that my friend Mary Beresford, who masterminded this Flower Festival, has been awarded the British Empire Medal in the Queen’s Birthday Honours, for service to her community. I’m so pleased for her!

Me and my daughter in a summer fun run I’m a fair-weather runner. My running shoes hibernate in the wardrobe from November to February, to spare me from running in the worst of the winter weather. But with the wettest April since records began now segueing into an equally soggy May, there’s a slim chance of dodging raindrops on the run.

Or so you might think. But in the last few days, I’ve discovered I have a King Canute-like ability to turn the tide of imminent downpours, simply by donning my trainers and hitting the road.

Last Saturday, I was scheduled to take part in a four-mile fun run in the next village. On the preceding Thursday and Friday, the rain had been falling in torrents. I wondered whether I’d be better off in a swimsuit than a tracksuit. I carefully packed a raincape for the run and a complete change of clothing, expecting to peel off sopping kit as soon as I crossed the finish line.

I drove to the starting point, windscreen wipers on full speed, headlights on, careering through puddles half the width of the roads. The race had been limited to 30 entrants, for fear of overcrowding, but thanks to the weather, only three, apart from me, turned up. The other three looked very pleased to see me. I gulped. There was no turning back.

And yet, by the time we padded off up the hill at the start of our four-mile circuit, the rain had just about vanished. We plodded on companionably, enjoying the inimitable freshness that emanates from fields after heavy rain. The weather was cool but comfortable, and when we arrived back at the village hall, we were pleasantly warm – and dry. Yet on the drive home, I had to turn my windscreen wipers on again.

Then last night, I went to join the local running club’s evening run. As I drove down the hill, steely grey clouds were hanging ominously over the clubhouse. It was drizzling as I parked the car. I took this to be an overture to a drenching. But once my run began, the same thing happened as on Saturday. The storm clouds held back; there was not a drop of precipitation. On the return leg, there was even a glimpse of the sun. But no sooner had I got home and kicked off my running shoes than great sheets of lightning began to fill the sky in the direction of where I’d been running. Thunder rumbled on for some time.

So I’m coming to the conclusion that my running has the effect of a reverse raindance. This could come in very handy.

Now, I realise that by going public with my new-found talent, I’m probably going to jinx it. (First rule of Reverse Raindance Club: Don’t Talk About Reverse Raindance Club.) Expect a follow-up post from me any time soon detailing how I’ve been struck by lightning on my latest run or had to swim home through a monsoon.

But I hope not, and just for selfish reasons. Think of the public good that I could do! This Wimbledon season, the British Lawn Tennis Club could hire me to run round the courts whenever the weather looks murky. If I sprint about Lords Cricket Ground now and again, rain need never stop play. And as to the London Olympics, well, let the sun shine.

It’s a shame I didn’t discover this talent earlier. I live near the Badminton Estate, where the most famous equestrian event in the world was meant to be taking place this weekend. For the first time in 25 years, it’s had to be cancelled because their land is waterlogged. If they’d just let me run around their course for a bit, I could have saved them the bother. But it’s just as well they didn’t ask me – I’m not sure I’m up to the jumps.

Some of my other posts about running:

Running In Wonderland (You Can Call Me Alice) Keeping Up With My Sporty Daughter

And if you enjoy any of these posts, please consider sponsoring my Bristol 10K run later this month! I’m raising money for research into a cure for my daughter’s Type 1 Diabetes here. Thank you!