Jonny McCambridge: An outsider, but still at home at the Balmoral Show

I say ewes, but in reality, I have no idea what they were. They may have been rams. Or something else entirely. I can say with certainty that they were not cows.

A well-dressed older woman who spoke with a grand accent approached me, seemingly under the misguided impression that I was an exhibitor or in some other way bound to the animals.

‘What,’ she began primly, ‘exactly are we looking at here?’

‘This’, I answered, pointing proudly at the nearest creature and genuinely attempting to be helpful, ‘is a sheep’.

At that moment the woman shot me a look which suggested that she would be quite happy to watch all my internal organs being scooped from my still breathing body with a melon baller and baked in a pie.

The unfortunate woman was making an erroneous but common assumption; that I know something about farming.

To be clear, there are certainly reasons why I really should have a proficient knowledge of agricultural matters. After all, I grew up in the countryside surrounded by fields, crops, animals and machinery. Members of my family and many of my friends were involved in farming.

A lot of my memories of summers as a child revolve around helping my uncle in the processes of making hay or silage. I can remember sitting often in the cabs of tractors, chasing around after chickens and getting butted by an angry ram after I had unwisely strayed into a field. My family kept a goat as a pet. While never overly concerned by sartorial matters, the one item of footwear that I absolutely could not do without as a youth was a pair of black welly boots.

But, for some reason, it all just never rubbed off on me. The environment that I grew up in definitely left a mark, but not deep enough that I ever really came to think like or identify as a farmer. Later in life I moved away from the countryside, and now my time there exists really only as memories and anecdotes that I pass on to my son.

But the link, although fine, is not quite broken. I still speak with a thick country drawl that I have never lost and have no desire to. I lived in Belfast for two decades, but never overcame the feeling that I was an outsider; that I was a country boy merely sampling the urban lifestyle.

And then there are the farming shows. If you can’t live the country life, then why not have it neatly organised, packaged and served up for you in a big tent or exhibition centre with burger and ice cream vans parked outside? I have been to many shows.

My da loves a show and would bring us occasionally as children. Machinery, rather than animals, was his obsession, and he would always head straight for the section with the new tractors and diggers. It was fun to sit in the cab and pretend to be driving, although the novelty would soon wear off. My da though, could spend a very long time staring at the hydraulics or examining the gleaming bodywork which was as yet unspoilt by mud.

There was another reason why certain grown-ups seemed to love a show. It was a practice based on repetition and, as a family, we could never walk very far without running into somebody that my da knew. He would then stop for a lengthy chat. Most children will know something of the frustration when your parents are having a boring conversation with other adults on a day out. You snap impatiently at their heels, whining and encouraging them to move on to the next attraction.

What I didn’t understand then was that what seemed to be just annoying filler was actually the substance. At a show you always ran into people you knew, who perhaps you had not seen since the last show. There always seemed to be much to catch up on.

In my adult life, more through chance than design, I’ve kept up a vague link with agricultural shows. The Balmoral Show I mentioned back at the start of this story was staged at the King’s Hall in Belfast. At the time I lived in that part of the city, so it seemed logical and easy to go.

Later, I moved out of the city and the event soon followed me. The new home of the Balmoral Show, at the sprawling former Maze site near Lisburn, is just minutes away from my house. So again, it seems logical and easy to go.

I’ve brought my son a few times. He enjoys seeing the animals. He marvels at the bulk and strength of the prize bulls. One year, we watched the sheep-shearing competition for so long that he fell asleep in my lap and I was afraid to move in case I woke him.

And this year, once again, I find myself at the Balmoral Show. This time I am here in a professional capacity, dragging around a heavy video camera and interviewing politicians.

But I am not immune to a feeling that seems to hover in very particles of air on this muggy Wednesday morning. After a break of more than two years caused by Covid, there is a sense of excitement among the crowd.

I watch one man walk from the car park to the entrance. He is red-faced, almost trotting and impatiently urging on his wife and children who follow close behind. He just cannot wait to get inside.

I walk around. The crowds are smaller than in previous years. The animals and machinery are still there. The intoxicating smell of the burger vans remains.

But what I notice most is the conversations. The people who stop in clusters to catch up. Perhaps those chats last even longer than usual this year.

Nobody stops to talk to me. The truth is that I’m as much an outsider at the show as an adult as I was as a child. But it is still lovely just to be here. It feels a little bit like home.

• Previous columns by Jonny McCambridge below, and beneath that information on how to subscribe to the News Letter

Jonny McCambridge Sep 22: The joys of student life – one sink and no inside toilet

Jonny McCambridge Sep 15: Emma Raducanu — my part in her success

Jonny McCambridge Sep 8: Charlie Chaplin saves the bank holiday

Jonny McCambridge Sep 1: Willy Loman and my antique dishwasher

Jonny McCambridge Aug 25: A day in Portrush with a Barry’s-shaped hole

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