Forwards and occasionally sidewards – everyday musings of life

The August Bank Holiday weather gods briefly granted us a reprieve from the rain as we strolled through the beautiful grounds of Stock Gaylard in Dorset for the annual Oak Fair. Our primary mission for the day was to locate a new dining room table, or at the very least find someone capable of crafting one for us.

Craftsmen who work in timber are apparently referred to as ‘Makers’—a nugget of trade terminology I picked up along the way.

We eventually found the ideal Maker who completely grasped our brief: something unique and beautiful, but without loudly proclaiming “Look at me, I’m the primary feature of this entire open-plan space.”

While the Maker was initially delighted to have secured a genuine commission, his enthusiasm likely waned as the day wore on. We were so thrilled with the find that we returned to his stall multiple times, dragging various family members along for approval. By the time we finally left him in peace, he’d met the entire family, heard our house renovation backstory a dozen times, knew our exact postcodes, and could probably guess what we’ll be having for Sunday dinner on his table three months from now.

Duly satisfied, we set off in search of lunch. Karen spotted a stall selling gourmet burgers made from a particularly rare breed of pig. The concept felt slightly counterintuitive to me—is this precisely why they are rare breeds? Because they’re all being turned into artisanal burgers?

Naturally, in true British country show fashion, the main arena featured the mandatory heavy horse display, a bird of prey demonstration, and tractor trailer rides. None of which particularly impressed me.

For a start, anyone who has ever had a horse step on their foot knows that all horses are heavy. These magnificent beasts trudged around the ring looking thoroughly bored while the crowd gazed in faux-amazement as they hauled a log. It was rather telling how the handler effortlessly lifted the log with one hand to attach the chain… clearly, it wasn’t quite the feat of Herculean strength it was made out to be.

The bird of prey display unfolded with predictable hilarity. These apex aerial predators spun their heads around with intelligent disdain, easily conning the falconer into believing he had somehow tamed a wild creature that could effortlessly fly off whenever it fancied. The trainer proceeded to narrate the full life history of all fifty birds he’d brought along. The crowd began to drift away. People have zero attention span; they just want to see birds fly. Mind you, if you look up at the sky in almost any outdoor setting, you’ll see birds flying anyway—that is, after all, their primary function.

Because the arena was sized for draft horses, the birds of prey looked like tiny, indistinct specks a quarter of a mile away. Still no actual flying occurred. More spectators shuffled off, rubbing their wet trousers after sitting for thirty minutes on straw bales still soaked from the morning downpour.

Eventually, to everyone’s utter astonishment, a ‘trained’ owl swooped low over a group of children. The crowd gasped, but let’s give the bird some credit: it was an exceptionally easy choice for a smart animal. Either fly towards a crowd of sticky children, or collect the piece of raw meat being dangled just past them. The parents were equally unimpressed as their darlings returned covered in grass stains, soaked through, and demanding yet another ice cream to pacify them.

Then came the inevitable climax: a rogue hawk went entirely off-script, deciding to decimate the local pigeon population before perching at the very top of the tallest oak tree to enjoy its catch. The trainer stood below, desperately blowing a whistle and swinging a dried-up, inedible scrap of meat on a string while trying to make light of the situation over the microphone. He was left talking to an ever-dwindling audience, all suffering from severe neck strain after staring at a tiny dot in the canopy for half an hour.

Unsurprisingly, the adjacent Indian head massage tent suddenly had a queue stretching around the block. I’m fairly certain the masseuse had a revenue-sharing deal with the falconer.

I’d seen enough. We’d secured the table, consumed our mandatory ice cream and coffee, and sampled the local rare breed population. All in all, a successful Bank Holiday outing.