A snob's guide to the village fête
Sophia Money-Coutts waxes lyrical about the most English of summer countryside traditions. Illustration by John Holder.
It’s a sight that gladdens the heart at this time of year: hand-painted signs dotted around the country declaring that the local village fete is shortly to take place.
‘The village fete!’ you may think warmly. ‘How lovely!’ You imagine the sun shining, a tombola, perhaps a coconut shy, children laughing and, perhaps, even a rude vegetable competition. It’s a quaint and comforting image of England. There will be tea and cake and warm Pimms; there will be jars of homemade preserves and giant marrows. There will be lots and lots of dogs.
Fetes aren’t supposed to be grand. The more homespun the better. In parts of the Cotswolds now, you may come across very grand fetes indeed. No sticky jars of dubious chutney in Burford, thank you very much. But the lack of sophistication is part of the charm. When so much is so carefully manicured for social media, these days, here is an event where the less perfection the better. The bunting is tangled and faded; the PA system crackles and then gives up; the tombola prizes include several tins of peaches in syrup that went out of date during the war. The first one.
On the day itself, it will rain, but spirits will not be dampened. Locals will determinedly erect gazebos in the drizzle and remark every few minutes that it’s set to brighten up after lunch. Reader: it will not brighten up after lunch.
No matter. The show will go on. Competitive events will vary from village to village. Some will feature a tug of war. Wellie wanging, Splat the Rat, ferret racing, ‘Guess the marrow weight?’, ‘Guess the number of sweets in a jar’, and sponge throwing may also feature. These will be taken immensely seriously, and with an astonishing level of competitiveness when one considers that the prize is probably one of those sticky jars of chutney. Last year, I went to a fete in Sussex where there was a ‘naturally misshapen vegetable’ competition and first prize was awarded to a suggestive carrot. ‘Very amusing!’ the judges had scribbled on their judging card. Second prize went to an enormous squash that had warped like a French horn. ‘What a whopper!’ said that judging card. Magnificent.
There will probably be a dog competition, too. Again, categories will vary from village to village. Waggiest tail is likely; best six legs is now disapproved of by some in these body positive days, but you can still find it in certain villages — those which remain blissfully unaware that judging the lady vicar’s legs could be a cancelling offence.
You’ll probably be able to get a slightly charred sausage if you’re peckish, or an ice cream, or buy something that looks vaguely as if it might have been sat on from the cake stall.
At one juncture of the afternoon (the rain still coming down), someone will announce on the crackly tannoy that a lost child is safely in the first aid tent. Or a lost dog. But nobody will panic very much because nothing could possibly go wrong at a fete.
Splendid, wasn’t it? Same time again, next year.
