Part One: The apprentice triumphs over his master in the end
Point the car home and keep the engine running when judging a show,’ was the advice given to me on passing my National Vegetable Society (NVS) exam. I had dipped my toe into exhibiting vegetables in the comforting arms of Bridport’s Melplash Show, won a few prize cards and was completely hooked. I decided that the only way to be more successful was by knowing exactly what the judges were looking for and therefore become a judge myself. This entailed shadowing experts for two years at shows of all levels, from one trestle table in a village hall to hundreds at the ‘Nationals’—from Harrogate to Charmouth, Chelsea to Shrewsbury. I took a three hour exam, waded through a table of terrifying diseased vegetables and finally judged a mock show under exacting scrutiny. I passed. But much more than that, I had completely fallen in love with this very British institution—The Horticulture Show.
These shows burgeoned in the nineteenth century developing from the specialist Victorian flower societies’ shows and feasts, often held in pubs or tents on a vicar’s lawn accompanied by a brass band. These gatherings were encouraged by the gentry not only to pit head gardeners against each other but also to tempt ordinary people into ‘wholesome’ pursuits that smacked of domestic piety and beauty. This hobby was certain to bring them closer to the Almighty. The ‘sot from the beer house’ was to be lured from ‘cock and dog fighting’ into the world of carnations and carrots. Anyone with a windowsill or smidgen of soil could be involved and all classes, ages and sexes seemed to relish this new horticultural frenzy. Smokey, smoggy towns were swept up in the craze and industrial areas of England formed unique specialisations that still exist today; miners of the North East held leek shows, gigantic gooseberries had already been the passion in Yorkshire since 1804, framework knitters of Nottingham threw themselves into roses and railwaymen bred auriculas sporting their station colours.
Show Schedules have also changed remarkably little and even today you can still see vestiges of Victorian class divisions in the separate categories; ‘Cucumbers, grown under protection’ for those with a greenhouse and ‘Cucumbers, outdoor grown’ aimed at those with an allotment or back garden. These and other scheduled categories had cleared the way to allow head gardeners to be superseded by keen amateurs on the show bench.
Then as today nothing quite beats that glorious calm of the tent on show morning—the smell of cut grass and canvas. Or the beauty of rows of carrots and shimmering onions, blanched leeks straight as church candles, ruby red tomatoes glowing on plates of sand, pea pods fanned on black velvet. These humble vegetables were staged the night before in a frenzied rush of tissue paper and raffia but now, after a summer of daily tending they are, at last, out. Out on the show bench, in quiet anticipation of the judge’s pronouncements.
And so judges will solemnly arrive in jackets and ties holding a schedule and a briefcase containing scales, tape measure, rings and a knife. Looking very much as they always have done, apart from the lack of hats and side burns, they are ready to uphold the age old judging and showing standards laid out in the ‘RHS Horticultural Show Handbook’
Very occasionally stresses can flare but for the majority of us a horticultural tent in a village or county show is remarkably nostalgic and comforting. There are small brown packets of money and splendid silver Victorian cups to win but for most, the embossed prize card proudly put on the mantelpiece is enough and anyone who wins anything at all will be completely hooked. Even those who don’t have success will know that ‘there’s always next year’ to start planning for… a different compost mix perhaps, or another twist of seeds slipped into your pocket from one of the masters?
