Hansel and Gretel

I‘m proposing a new country shows competition called ‘Hansel and Gretel: Post visit’

I took my husband and my niece, Bella, 5, to the annual Berwick Show on the weekend. I chose Berwick for a few reasons, it fit with my ‘one show a month’ goal, it is close to town, and when I asked the Showmen’s Guild vice president he raved about it. Indeed everyone I spoke to raved about it.

We arrived at about 2, just in time to see the cattle judging and the grand parade. Of animals. And a few jazzed up Ford Ute. I was pleased not to see a waving Miss Country Showgirl in the back of a Ute.

I did my official business and then succumbed to Bella’s pulling of my hand in the direction of the show rides. I hate heights. I hate sideshow alley. And I hate fairy floss. Plus I’d been fighting a panic attack all morning. But I’m always taken by how pretty and odd and big the Ferris Wheel is, and bought two tickets. I remembered my fear of heights as soon as the carriage began its climb into the sky. My niece, never having been to a show or on a Ferris Wheel, jumped up in glee, ‘look Tia Catharine, you can see the whole village’. She really said village. Question: When did an Australian town become a fairytale village? Answer: When viewed from the clouds by a five year old.

By the third round I loosed my grip of the central steel pole in the capsule enough to snap a few pictures. By the fifth I eyed the ride operator in what I thought was desperation. On the fifteenth I telephoned my Showmen’s Guild contact and asked, very nicely, if he wouldn’t mind letting me out. Before I passed out. ‘Oh’, said Clay, ‘we thought you were enjoying it, and ya know, we wanted to look after you and your little un…’

Yeah right. I know where you live Clay. Or at least where you work. But really, thanks, we, I mean Bella, loved it. She has requested that the Tea Cup ride be at the next show she attends.

Next we toured the pavilions. Pavilions, for all you non-showy people, are where the competitions are. The fruit cakes, the photographs, the art work, the Mr Potato Heads, the cross stitch, the best wrapped gift box (no, I’m not joking, this is a legitimate competition and has age sections). The biggest, the best, the most beautiful, this, my friends, is where ‘Showing Victoria’ happens, in the pavilions.

On the way found the alpaca’s. When I say ‘found’, I mean stumbled right into the middle of the judging, if my niece had gotten down on all fours and ‘baaa’ed’ she might have won a ribbon. I’d been lead to believe that alpaca’s were grumpy, mean, smelly animals. After my experience I beg to differ. They are sweet natured, well behaved, soft, gentle animals. Except the one that kicked Geoff. But I’m sure it was having a bad day. I did warn him about the double-jointed hip motion of the South American camelids. We noticed lots of Land Rovers and BMW four-wheel drives which lead us to surmise that alpaca farming must be an excellent tax dodge. I had the pleasure of feeling an alpaca fleece and it was silky and delicate and buttery. I think I’ll look for an alpaca wrap for winter.  

We steered Bella past Show Bag Street and onto the horses. ‘Look, small niece, at all the pretty horses, quick, let’s go and watch them before they have to go home and go to bed.’

There was a kerfuffle on the arena. The Showjumping was to be after the V8 Ute synchronised swimming demonstration (you know, all these cars spin about and leap in the air and look like they belong in an aqua musical featuring Ester Williams.)

The horse committee were having a face off with the arena director about the potential state of the ground after the cars had had their fun. The crowd grew restless. An announcement came over the PA ‘There will now be a very slow motorcar demonstration from Ford…’ The cars pranced about the field. Then it was the horses turn. Both were very beautiful, well choreographed, and well received by the crowd.

By this stage I was a tired little show-goer. The other two were anxious to go on more rides, so we made a rendezvous for the entertainment tent. I found a seat and watched ‘Show Idol’. I was glad that it was in the shade, near the coffee cart and ice-cream van and away from the screeching sideshows. What I hadn’t expected was a talent show of such, well, talented performers. From five year old bush balladeers to sixty year old rappers to a fourteen year old girl with a voice reminiscent of Missy Higgins, all the contestants were fantastic. I was clapping and tapping and at one time, silently sobbing, with the rest of the crowd.  Sadly my favourite did not win, a Delta Goodrem clone fanned herself and fake-coyly accepted the first place sash. I gave my girl a wink and told her, as she walked past me, that I thought she was great. In true tortured artist form she ducked her head under her wing, scuffed the dirt and muttered ‘nah, I was crap’.

My family telephoned me to say that they had been given free tickets to the Merry-Go-Round and could they meet me at the fruit cakes in half an hour? So I wandered over to the Arts and Crafts pavilion to study perhaps the most cherished of all show competitions: cakes.

I oohed and ahhed in all the right places, marvelled at the intricate embroidery, took notes on perfect patchwork and poured over bottles of preserves and little plates of shortbread and fairy cakes. Then I saw it. A crumbled gingerbread house with a sign: ‘Category three storm blew house over.’

And it was the prettiest, most luscious, annihilated gingerbread house one could ever hope to see. I was told that pre-collapse it was a triple storied replica of a Portsea beach house. It was explained to me that it survived the judging on Wednesday, but shortly after it won first place in the ‘Open Three Storied Gingerbread Beach House’ section the roof bowed. On Thursday morning it began its elegant demise and my Saturday it lay in beautiful ruinous biscuit loveliness. Apparently it was the heat. These European gingerbread recipes are not meant to withstand four days of competition in the height of the Australian summer. The steward anxiously asked me if the should remove it (an exhibit is only removed from the show under extreme and extra ordinary circumstances.) I pleaded with them to keep it. Too often we are obsessed with the perfect, the best, the biggest, when it is beautifully broken things, people, situations, that flavour our day.

The look of bewilderment on the steward’s face should have told me I’d said the wrong thing. But I persisted with my intellectual abstractions until interrupted by my husband, loudly, asking why a broken biscuit had won first prize…

The Berwick Show was first class. And I haven’t even mentioned the amazing Dutch pancakes, the really really good (fair-trade) coffee, the extensive and excellent photography exhibits, the amazing display of turn of the (one before last) century farm machinery, the lovely people, the happy crowds, the beautiful cattle, the funny and entertaining novelty equestrian events. And the fireworks. We had a ringside seat. Everyone did. I expected a few minutes reminiscent of Friday nights in Coober Pedy (another blog post for another time). I was wrong. Very wrong. A prodigious pyrotechnic display ensured. Even I could tell it was well choreographed and executed. My husband loves fireworks and he’s viewed them at the Sydney Olympics, at Christmas time in Disneyland and in Paris on Bastille Day. One might call him a firework chaser. And even Sir Geoffrey was impressed.

I’m sure the Berwick Show will be a permanent fixture on the Redden-Hodder calendar.

Now, who do I see about a new competition for broken gingerbread houses?