The mooing divas of the farming world

Forget your massive music festivals – the Mullingar Show is pure entertainment, writes MIRIAM LORD

The gates were closed and locked for the judging. Outside the shed, anxious exhibitors peered through wire fencing as three women got to work, poking spoons into jars of lemon curd and slicing small slivers off the Victoria sponges.

They worked their way methodically through tables laden with apple tarts and brown bread, fruit cakes and tea scones. There was intense discussion over an Oxford lunch.

It was just as intense among the spectators outside, particularly when one of the judges appeared to be measuring the size of Maureen’s third radish. “Why are they doing that? Nothing wrong with them, I can tell you.” (The small and perfectly formed radishes were part of her domestic arts entry, which also included a crocheted blanket, three pods of peas and a pot of jam.)

But it’s always the cattle that get the glory at the agricultural shows – those mooing divas of the farming world. It was no different at the annual Mullingar Show yesterday. The animals get their pictures in the papers and the lion’s share of the attention. Sometimes it rankles a little with the home-crafts people.

Eamon from Roscommon – roses, mixed bunch, Sweet William and rhubarb jam – knows the effort that goes into raising flowers and potting preserves. “There’s more creativity to our stuff – anybody can wash a cow,” he sniffed.

It was like New Year’s Eve in Peter Mark over at the cattle, what with the amount of turbo-charged blow-drying and frantic backcombing going on.

The Mullingar Show has been in existence for 175 years, save for a couple of lapses during two World Wars. It’s the second biggest show of its kind in the Midlands, and has been luckier than its Offaly counterpart with the weather in recent years.

David Wall (14) was busy applying soap to a Simmental’s coat. “It’s like hair gel for cattle,” he explained, as he expertly fluffed up the end of its tail. We didn’t expect to see a Dub in the middle of the action. Wall, a student at Newbridge College in Kildare, explained that he comes from a farming family in Newcastle, Co Dublin and he’s a veteran of the shows.

Hooray! A rosette for David, a victory for the Dubs in Croker, and one in the eye for rezoning.

There was, of course, a “Beef to the heel Mullingar heifer championship”. Sadly, the competition was confined to four-legged females, cruelly dashing our hopes of a Dublin raider bagging the title.

Back at the indoor classes, there was an anxious moment when one of the judges appeared to choke on a morsel of coffee cake. “Must be very dry,” mused the women outside the wire, watching the plates to see where those red first-prize tickets were going. The onions were so shiny they had to be anointed with Mr Sheen, but no, they weren’t. The beets were cut in half to reveal perfect ruby rings , while the eggs came in the sort of hues that don’t seem to figure on the supermarket colour charts.

Tracy and Derek Pullein could have explained their provenance, had they been on the scene. But they were down the way at the poultry show, where the judging also took place behind closed doors so they could concentrate.

How do you judge a bird? Tracy held up a hardback book: British Poultry Standards (sixth edition). “That’s the bible,” she said. “It sets the standard, like when you’re not sure of a duck- bill colour.”

Trevor Chadwick was overseeing the competition. The raucous crowing of the cocks was nearly as bad as leaders’ questions in the Dáil.

A clutch of fluffy grey duckling were a hit with the children. “They’re too young for a class yet, so they’re just an exhibit. There’s the mother,” he said, pointing to another cage.

“But that’s a big hen.”

“She’s the brood mother.”

The Golden Bramah looked stunning, with its shiny henna feathers. “Great birds to be broody,” Chadwick remarked. Great for sitting on duck and geese eggs, apparently, because they have a big wide bottom.

You knew you were near the horses when the accents became more RDS and men and women strolled about, rears encased in jodhpurs that would put the Golden Bramahs to shame and cover a fair few duck eggs. “Dahling? Have they done the hunter showring yet? Where are the beagles?”

The sun shone and Sen Labhrás Ó Murchú performed the official opening, making a long speech from the back of a trailer to an empty field. The judges were still deliberating at the domestic end.

As we left, head muzzy with the smell of cowpat and hay, Supermac burger, pullet feather, porter cake and sweet pea, Richie Kavanagh was tuning up his guitar on the back of a trailer and chef Frank Moynihan was demonstrating how to make parsnip and pear soup. A woman was handing out No to Lisbon leaflets at the gate as a small girl passed, dressed as a shepherd, leading a rotund little black dog with a bolster of white cotton wool on his back. Her sheep for the dog fancy dress.

What’s not to love about an Irish country summer?