You know how you see the reports about the traffic on bank holidays, and think are they all really stupid or something? Do they not know that the entire urban population has had collective amnesia and is making its annual trip to the countryside?
Well, we are that stupid.
On the face of it, a trip out to the not-very-wilds-of-Northumberland to go to the Northumberland County Show sounded like a fun proposition. We exhumed the Triumph Dolomite SE for that 1970s feel, packed a retro picnic (cheesy puffs, cheese and pickle sandwiches, Tunnocks caramel wafers), and headed off.
Two hours later, we were still sat in the car, somewhere near the A69. The picnic was long gone, apart from the cheesy puffs (which were nowhere near as cheesy as I remembered - I blame the lack of additives), there was nothing on the (AM only) radio, and the small child in the back had managed to cover herself in tomatoes and pour water everywhere.
In true bank holiday spirit, we didn't admit defeat. The show must go on, and all that. And so it did. Eventually.
After being royally fleeced by the entry staff, we discovered the endless delights of tractors, hay baling equipment, motorcycle display teams, llamas, wrestling and other high quality agricultural attractions. I scored highly for knowing what a bunded storage tank was, but failed to impress on the 'is it a sheep or a goat?' round.
The small child decided the best bits were (a) the cake section - and I'm with her on that one, although the Fat Rascals were nowhere near as good as Betty's (b) the tweenage Irish dancers wearing huge corkscrew curl wigs and day-glo costumes and (c) the campervans. You can take the child out of the city...
Actually, it was wildly obvious that we were townies - we weren't wearing enough tweed, puffa bodywarmers, reflective sunglasses or turned up collars. I spent most of my formative years in deepest East Anglia, surrounded by Young Farmers, but the last decade in the fleshpots seems to have had an effect.