B is for Barrowford

Barrowford is in Lancashire, in Pendle “witch country”.  I live some 70 miles away in equally wild and woolly Cumbria, so I set off early, with my judge’s hat in a bag on the back seat of the car, and a pair of wellies, two waterproofs, a flask of coffee, and a change of clothes (including socks and knickers) in the boot. Titter not – I have needed all these things on previous occasions. It had rained steadily all week and the forecast weather was unsettled, to say the least.

The route looked simple on the map: M6 to Farleton, A65 to Long Preston, A682 to Gisburn, then – still on the A682 but via a dogleg down Gisburn’s main street – the Burnley road to Barrowford. And in fact the moment I said, “I’m sure I must have gone wrong,” the town name appeared on a sign by the roadside. Laminated cream-coloured A4 signs also pointed helpfully onward to Barrowford Show. Well, I’m three hours early, I thought. This is going to be a doddle.

Then I got into the middle of the town and the cream Show signs were replaced by yellow ones saying “Book Fair” and pointing over a bridge to the left, so on the principle of “continue unless told otherwise” I drove on. Soon I could see horses being cantered in circles by smartly dressed young ladies in what looked like a municipal park; but the Pendle Water ran between me and it, and there was a lot of traffic on the road and no bridge, so again, I drove on. Eventually all views of horses disappeared. I did a three point turn in a cul-de-sac and, failing to see any other Show signs, I went back over the only bridge I’d seen, to park in the Heritage Centre and have a look round the Book Fair.

Two books later, I asked the way from the Centre assistant.

“Everything is laid out differently this year but nobody’s told us exactly how,” she said, as helpfully as she could in the circumstances. “You could walk through the Park and ask the people on the entrance for directions.”

I walked by the primness of the bowling green and past the pond into Barrowford Park, to find that industrial fencing separated me from the showground. I enquired of the young lady at the pay point if there was a way to get my car into the Show. Though as helpful as the Heritage lady, she turned out to be geographically challenged.

“I think you have to make a left and go over a bridge. Erm, I don’t know really.”

I retraced my steps and took the car out of the Heritage car park, and wondered if I would regret giving up the parking place.

Back along the main street, with Pendle Water on my left again, and the park, so tantalisingly close and full of horses, on the further bank. Past housing, and industrial units, and still no Show direction signs. Then I came to a motorway access roundabout and I thought, “Well, I’ve obviously missed it again, better turn round.”

I found the entrance to an industrial estate, where there was lots of turning space, as everything was closed for the Bank Holiday. I accosted a couple walking their dogs, and enquired directions to the Show field.

“We’re not sure, we don’t live here, but we’ve just passed two men in yellow jackets at a gate down there so I expect that’s the entrance to the show.”

They pointed me to a woodland track guarded by two iron posts, so I thanked them and set off to look for the yellow jackets.

You know that uneasy feeling you get when every signpost arrow you pass points back the way you came? It prepared me for the moment when the gate steward came towards me with a warning hand upraised.

“I’m totally lost,” I announced cheerfully, “but I really need somewhere to park because I’m judging your carriage driving classes this afternoon.”

It worked. He grinned and found me a convenient dry place to turn the car, and since the designated field was full he parked me just over the Bridge onto the cycle path and cricket pitch. I gathered my necessary Belongings, settled the Brown Bowler hat, slung my Bag over one shoulder, and trekked under the motorway Bridge and through the Back of a housing estate to reach one of the two show fields. An enquiry at the pay Booth sent me to the secretary’s little tented hideaway, next to a show ring with a Backdrop of modern housing. The Shetland ponies in the ring all wore red or Blue rosettes on their halters, and I stood at the ringside while the Shetland judge sorted out his championship winners. That done, his steward, identifying me by hat and driving club Badges, introduced herself as the show secretary, and offered us Both lunch in her little tent.

I knew the Shetland judge, so we sat for a while companionably munching turkey buns and crisps and salady bits, and chatting about Fell ponies, which are our mutual interest. After he went home I watched a class for Shire mares and foals – entirely the other end of the telescope from the Shetlands and miniatures – and began to wonder if the ring was big enough for carriage driving.

As it turned out, because the Shire horse classes were running over time, the secretary informed the competitors that we would shift the carriage driving to the other horse ring. This involved another trek, this time along the terraced lane beside the Water, to the other half of the show. We breathed in as an enormous tractor overtook us to tow-out a horsebox stuck in the mud. It didn’t bode well.

However, although bits of the second show ring resembled ploughland following the riding horse classes, the carriage competitors were keen and brought forward some nice horses and ponies for my opinion. I find it easiest to place the exhibits by knocking off points for faults such as Badly fitted harness or disobedient Behaviour such as Bucking, Bolting or unexpected Backing. Using this method I got the classes sorted out to my liking, before we built the cones course for the speed driving class. The commentator came out of her box once or twice to discuss what we were doing – it's always nice to be asked first, before the public address system can misinform the crowd. She even helped to tread-in some of the divots.

The technicalities of judging, and offering advice to those who were unplaced, kept me satisfyingly Busy till about 4:30 when I got a lift back to my car. And found the Bridge to the cricket field guarded by a padlocked gate. Bollocks.

And the gates at the industrial estate were locked. Double bollocks.

And, as the Asian boys watching the cricket match informed me with Barely concealed relish, the towpath gate was locked as well, “So you’ll have to watch a couple of hours of cricket.” At which point the rain re-started. A queue of cars began to form behind mine as the cricket was abandoned. Balls. Or Bails.

I got out the mobile and phoned the secretary, who was helpful once again. I don’t know how she managed to stay so pleasant through such a long day with so many demands on her attention. In the meantime I sought comfort in the coffee flask, and waited in the car while the rain teemed down. Eventually a yellow jacket arrived to unlock the Bridge gate. “Bet you’re relieved to see me!” he said.

I was indeed. I drove back under the motorway, and past the side entrance to the show field, and the clubhouse of Barrowford Celtic Football Club; logo, a witch on a Broomstick. And so out through the housing estate, right through the town, onto the Gisburn road, and away home. The traffic was mainly going the other way and, apart from the rain, most of my homeward journey went as smoothly as the outward one. It was only Barrowford Show that was Barely accessible and, just possibly, Bewitched; a show of two halves. And I don’t know, even now, where the main entrance may have Been. Silly B.