‘My wife says it’s like watching paint dry’: The National Ploughing Championships is outstanding in its field

My grandfather always used to tell me: “Well sown is half grown.” If you do the ploughing well, then get the seed in at the right time in the right conditions, the chances are you’ll have a good crop,’ muses Ian Cradock, as he leans against that same relative’s 1944 Fordson N to survey the plot he has just completed at the 75th British National Ploughing Championships in Austrey, Warwickshire, last month.

When asked whether he is happy with his efforts, he is bashful: ‘I’ve done worse. I did a good block yesterday, but it wasn’t as good as this.’ We have ploughed the fields and scattered seed on the land for thousands of years. Indeed, the introduction of the practice was arguably the most pivotal in farming history, as it reshaped the landscape and the way people lived.

At the end of the Neolithic Ice Age, warmer conditions allowed previously nomadic hunter-gatherers to settle and, as the millennia passed by, our dependence on sourcing food within a nearby area grew. Initially, branches were used to scratch the earth, but, by 3000BC, primitive ploughs — hook-shaped wooden tools called ards — were being harnessed to animals.

The arrival of the Bronze and Early Iron Ages enabled metal reinforcement on the tips to improve durability. Meanwhile, the faster farmers were able to plough and the further into the soil they could break to bring the nutrients to the top and to aerate the earth, the greater the quantity and quality of the crops they could produce. The arrival of steam power in the 18th century facilitated another significant advancement, because machines could shoulder the work and, by the 1850s, steam engines were pulling the plough.

Now, our ancestors’ brows would be furrowed with curiosity at modern-day capabilities; earlier this month, an acre was ploughed in a mere nine minutes and 19.96 seconds, a new Guinness World Record. Mention speed to any of the competitors at the Nationals, however, and it is met with dismissive scoffs. When I tease Cradock that it isn’t the most high-octane sport, he smiles. ‘My wife says it’s like watching paint dry,’ he admits. ‘We are given four hours; we do a split, stand up for half an hour while the judges have a look and then we’re off again. But it is a skill and so much goes into it.’

Initial preparation of the plot (usually about 330ft long and 65ft wide) involves raking or forking up loose straw. Then, once the ploughing begins, so, too, does the meticulous tinkering and adjusting, with some ploughers stopping regularly, brandishing a spanner or tape measure and adjusting their alignment with precision. ‘The be all and end all is whether it’s straight,’ John Nicholas, one of the judges of the Ford and Fordson classes, explains.

‘They have to do it by eye alone. If the first couple of runs aren’t exactly straight, they can fix it when they start ploughing properly. As a judge, if you see somebody isn’t straight, but they work on it to get better, we think: “Ok, they’ve tried.” Quite often, you’ll see somebody start well, but then they create a crooked plot and don’t do anything about it. We don’t like that. There is still a strong element of farming; it’s not only about winning, it’s about adapting and doing what’s going to work for your land. It goes back to the old-fashioned values of good ploughing creating good crops. If your ploughing is uneven, it’s going to take more cultivating, cost you more and the crop won’t grow uniformly.’

Nicholas is one of several fluorescent-bibbed judges, all of whom have been selected by a panel and have previously competed: ‘It’s a lot easier to judge when you know what you’re talking about. We’re a bit of a dying breed — I actually stopped ploughing to judge.’ He is on one side of a section of field where green posts demarcate the plots; brown posts define the other end, where another judge patrols. ‘Our scoresheet colours correspond to the posts. We don’t work in partnership, so our opinion can be different.’

The first component judged is the opening — the scratch, or single furrow, then the turn and the second furrow back — on whether it is well cut, uniform and straight. It is this, together with the finish, that are the most important parts. It’s a hard act to furrow. I catch snatches of Carl Fretwell’s Yorkshire tones over the chug chug of his David Brown 880 tractor as he explains: ‘You’re working towards leaving it all parallel and straight. The start is your first hurdle. Once you get going on the middle part, you have to work on keeping parallel and you can measure that to check, but your focus is on the finish — you must get that right. I’m not quite parallel at the moment, but I can widen or narrow my front furrow to adjust.’

I ask how long he has been competing. ‘Far too long! I think I’ve done the National 36 times. I’ve been ploughing since I was 13. My dad was a champion. My grandad wouldn’t match plough because he didn’t like ploughing other people’s land for nothing. He were a true Yorkshireman!’

Rarely in a field of competitors would there be such a range of equipment with the same purpose. At the far end of the site, traction engines heave ploughs reminiscent of medieval torture devices across a stretch of stubble with slow, rhythmical chuntering, the occasional peeeeep of their whistles sounding like an exasperated exhalation of effort. Nearer the trade stands, ribboned heavy horses throw their weight into the jangling harnesses and obey the steadying ‘woah’ of their drivers. Adjacent to them, vintage tractors putter alongside massive modern beasts out of which sunglasses-clad men in overalls jump to assess angles with an air of Top Gun nonchalance. One of them, Euron Griffith, is on a mission. He may be at the Nationals, but ‘no one’s ever won the Worlds from Wales, so that’s what I’m aiming for’.

Griffith started competing when he was 13, entering about 25 competitions a year in vintage classes. Now, he ploughs reversible (where the soil is turned in the same direction) and does about eight: ‘It’s an expensive hobby. There’s £50 here and there in prize money, the same as it was 50 years ago. I was ploughing in the World Ploughing Championships in Croatia last month. It cost £20,000, up from £12,000, because of fuel costs and the extras. If you’re a millionaire, it’d be all right.’

Unlike other classes, where the equipment is small enough to be transported on a trailer, this serious kit requires more logistics — and it’s not going to tuck into most Airbnb parking spaces. Griffith is on plot 13: ‘A lucky number yesterday — I finished top in qualifiers. Everything came right. I think it was better soil where I was; it was a bit heavier down the bottom and that makes a difference.’ I suggest that little can be done if the soil type is different to what is practised on at home and he nods: ‘In Croatia, the ground was rock hard, it was tough going.’

It’s heartening to see so many of the next generation showing interest and there are several family connections in the competitor list, too. This is Ellie Bullard’s 11th year at the Nationals; her brother Josh has competed eight times and it is 16-year-old sister Chloe’s first. ‘It’s nice for the three of us to be here together. We are all very supportive of each other, although it can get a bit competitive — Josh and Chloe were in direct competition yesterday,’ Bullard remarks.

‘We have a range of old tractors at home and were brought up going to ploughing matches over the years. My dad, grandad, great-grandad and great-uncle have all competed in their time and we have always been along to support them. Each one of us started as soon as we could, aged 13. Dad has been our main teacher, but people are really helpful and share their wisdom on the match field.’

Not only is there a sense of community during the competition, but events over the weekend bring people together, from a service to bless the plough in a local church on the Friday to a hog roast on the Saturday night. Nicola Rawnsley, who has travelled from the Isle of Man, didn’t come from a farming background, but has felt welcome from the beginning. ‘My interest in ploughing happened when I met my husband, David,’ she explains. ‘He was a bit of a novice, so we learnt together. I mostly plough general purpose (where uniform, whole furrows are laid), but I have just started ploughing high cut (in which the soil is brought to a sharp point). It’s not done on the island as we have our unique Manx style (an intricate method that creates castellated peaks), so I’m still getting to grips with it.’

The couple currently works a pair of Comtois mares called Tempete and Elle. ‘Tempete’s like a racehorse, she wants to get it done in double time.’ I remark that, despite the heartening number of women participating in the other classes, Rawnsley is very much in the minority in the horse ploughing. ‘It’s really physical — the preparation, putting equipment away afterwards and especially ploughing high-cut style,’ she explains. ‘If you turn short or too far, you’ve got to hoick the plough across. On one wheel I’ve got a 56lb weight to balance the high-cut gear on the other side, so it requires some core strength.’

She laughs as she remembers, ‘I went to get supplies when packing to come here and the shop assistant asked if I was going on holiday. I said: “Loosely — I’m going away ploughing and I’ll be living in a horsebox for two weeks.” She was horrified. I must admit, at this point I’d kill for a hot bath.’ For now, however, she needs to keep ploughing on.

This feature originally appeared in the October 28, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe

For more information about the ploughing championships, see here.