- Location
- Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk
With summer in full glory, I’ve been out and about to catch the odd show. And by this, I don’t mean Andrew Lloyd Webber type show, which doesn’t do anything for me at all. But rather the sort where thousands of us spend a third of our day queueing on the road to get in, then another third shuffling along endless rows of booths selling snake oil/ standing in line to pay £8.50 for either an ice lolly or a soggy burger…mmmmm. Salmonella-in-a-bap. The remaining couple of hours, we get to either loaf around chewing the fat with our chums, or admire the immaculately turned out show beasts. Ovine, or bovine, or equine…it’s all much of a muchness in its way.
And this is where we’re going today. I’ve brushed up close enough to the livestock showing circuit to see what it’s about, and I’ve bred and raised a few animals to know one end of ‘em from the other myself. And while showing can be an enjoyable way to while away your summers, or even a useful shop window for your business, to a hill farming monkey like me, there is also a complete jarring nonsense to the whole baloney.
It is perfectly acceptable, apparently, to buy in animals just to show, and not only pour money into their pampered lives to keep them in this mythical ‘show condition’, but to employ professionals to do so. And when you’re in a certain league, with the breeds of the moment, the numbers start to stack up astonishingly. Presumably, it’s then a monstrous out-of-hand game of poker. You’ve invested so heavily, hoping to win the top honours, or to be selling stock to recoup your layout, that you daren’t flinch.
At a certain level, the circuit is loads of fun, getting together with your chums, fluffing up a brumby colt you’ve haltered and got quiet enough to bring out in public, sharing tips on the best shampoo to keep a shine on his coat, or lending one another bits of gear, congratulating one another when the rosettes are handed round- for your turn will come under a different judge, next time, maybe….surely. But there’s always someone who gets desperately upset, because the wrong brumby colt took the prize, or because some poor over-worked volunteer steward has forgotten to wake them from their slumber in time for the class….which they were bound to win. I find the loudest whingers are often the ones who’ve invested heaviest. Those who rodeo’ed a hairy feral critter off the range, or washed and blow dried little Billies somewhat surprised bottle lamb, are usually a bit more phlegmatic about not winning the championship.
While they were out for some fun, and regard an early exit as a good chance to locate the ale tent, the former expect to win, and often end up occupying a vest of nipers when they don’t.
As for the animals themselves, and what showing does to them, and their breeders selection criteria. Hmm.
I can’t watch certain types being shown without cringing. My toes curl back up my boots when I see the state of the locomotion in a couple of highly desirable breeds of cattle. Apparently, the ability to walk a few hundred meters to the water trough is not within the breed standards, which rather confuses me. One cow I’ve witnessed do rather well has hocks nearly touching when she walks, and I wouldn’t even breed from her, ne’er mind bring her out in public.
And being pretty pernickety about such things, I can barely stand to see the feet of some of these poor creatures. A huge bull passed me by recently, being led off to his class. I couldn’t help but see that his toes were wrinkled and bulging, and growing almost perceptibly, such must his food intake have been. If he’d have been a Dartmoor pony, laminitis would already have crippled him, and I could only see a poor animal surely bound for endless fettling and pain. He returned with the champions sash.
It’s widely known that some hill sheep breeders on the show circuit keep separate flocks. One for showing, and one actually living on the hill. And it’s not that the show flock are simply better fed, they are actually very different sheep. Their fashions in coat or colour rule over basic survival traits, which surely makes a nonsense of the whole thing…doesn’t it?
Surprisingly enough, I’m seldom asked to judge…in case I put up the wrong brumby colt I daresay. Still, this leaves me all the more time to seek out Egbert, and hence to the ale tent.
About the author
Originally published in The Western Morning News, these articles are reproduced for the enjoyment of TFF members World-wide by kind permission of the author Anton Coaker and the WMN
Anton Coaker is a fifth generation farmer keeping suckler cows and flocks of hill sheep high on the Forest of Dartmoor and running a hardwood and mobile sawmill.
A prodigious writer and regular correspondent for The Western Morning News, NFU and The Farming Forum, Anton’s second book “The Complete Bullocks” is available fromwww.anton-coaker.co.uk
And this is where we’re going today. I’ve brushed up close enough to the livestock showing circuit to see what it’s about, and I’ve bred and raised a few animals to know one end of ‘em from the other myself. And while showing can be an enjoyable way to while away your summers, or even a useful shop window for your business, to a hill farming monkey like me, there is also a complete jarring nonsense to the whole baloney.
It is perfectly acceptable, apparently, to buy in animals just to show, and not only pour money into their pampered lives to keep them in this mythical ‘show condition’, but to employ professionals to do so. And when you’re in a certain league, with the breeds of the moment, the numbers start to stack up astonishingly. Presumably, it’s then a monstrous out-of-hand game of poker. You’ve invested so heavily, hoping to win the top honours, or to be selling stock to recoup your layout, that you daren’t flinch.
At a certain level, the circuit is loads of fun, getting together with your chums, fluffing up a brumby colt you’ve haltered and got quiet enough to bring out in public, sharing tips on the best shampoo to keep a shine on his coat, or lending one another bits of gear, congratulating one another when the rosettes are handed round- for your turn will come under a different judge, next time, maybe….surely. But there’s always someone who gets desperately upset, because the wrong brumby colt took the prize, or because some poor over-worked volunteer steward has forgotten to wake them from their slumber in time for the class….which they were bound to win. I find the loudest whingers are often the ones who’ve invested heaviest. Those who rodeo’ed a hairy feral critter off the range, or washed and blow dried little Billies somewhat surprised bottle lamb, are usually a bit more phlegmatic about not winning the championship.
While they were out for some fun, and regard an early exit as a good chance to locate the ale tent, the former expect to win, and often end up occupying a vest of nipers when they don’t.
As for the animals themselves, and what showing does to them, and their breeders selection criteria. Hmm.
I can’t watch certain types being shown without cringing. My toes curl back up my boots when I see the state of the locomotion in a couple of highly desirable breeds of cattle. Apparently, the ability to walk a few hundred meters to the water trough is not within the breed standards, which rather confuses me. One cow I’ve witnessed do rather well has hocks nearly touching when she walks, and I wouldn’t even breed from her, ne’er mind bring her out in public.
And being pretty pernickety about such things, I can barely stand to see the feet of some of these poor creatures. A huge bull passed me by recently, being led off to his class. I couldn’t help but see that his toes were wrinkled and bulging, and growing almost perceptibly, such must his food intake have been. If he’d have been a Dartmoor pony, laminitis would already have crippled him, and I could only see a poor animal surely bound for endless fettling and pain. He returned with the champions sash.
It’s widely known that some hill sheep breeders on the show circuit keep separate flocks. One for showing, and one actually living on the hill. And it’s not that the show flock are simply better fed, they are actually very different sheep. Their fashions in coat or colour rule over basic survival traits, which surely makes a nonsense of the whole thing…doesn’t it?
Surprisingly enough, I’m seldom asked to judge…in case I put up the wrong brumby colt I daresay. Still, this leaves me all the more time to seek out Egbert, and hence to the ale tent.
About the author
Originally published in The Western Morning News, these articles are reproduced for the enjoyment of TFF members World-wide by kind permission of the author Anton Coaker and the WMN
Anton Coaker is a fifth generation farmer keeping suckler cows and flocks of hill sheep high on the Forest of Dartmoor and running a hardwood and mobile sawmill.
A prodigious writer and regular correspondent for The Western Morning News, NFU and The Farming Forum, Anton’s second book “The Complete Bullocks” is available fromwww.anton-coaker.co.uk
the fourth paragraph