So, if you read the previous blog you will have seen me raise a quizzical eyebrow at the woman who said she was so looking forward to village life where everyone was equal and everyone joined in everything….

More vignettes from the village festivities:

One:

A stallholder arriving and asking where was her chair, her table ( neither of which she had asked for/ordered/paid for) her help to get stuff from her car, and someone to help erect her gazebo ( none of which we have people on hand just waiting to do) and, by the way, where was Tim. 

‘Tim’ I asked, ‘Do you mean Tim running the bookstall? because I think he is sorting books.’ 

‘No,Tim my son’

‘I’m sorry I don’t know your son.’

‘Really? you don’t know Tim. Have you lived here long?’

‘Nine years.’

‘Well, when you see him, please send him to me immediately.’

Two:

Most of the village street has pavements either side but there is a stretch with houses and no pavements, and that makes it difficult to walk into the village without flattening yourself against a wall as posh cars on their way to Goodwood, or indeed many other vehicles on their way somewhere or another, come through.

At 8 am as the street was closed, a man stepped down into the road and stated painting his wall.

‘Nice day for it’ we said as we walked past.

‘The only bloody day for it’ he said.

Three:

A phone call at 9pm a day or two before the festivities.

‘Just checking you can organise me a lift.’

It turned out the caller was a man who sells homemade stuff and lives in the outskirts of the village and is no longer allowed to drive.

I was not sure that organising a pick up was in my remit but the Best Beloved said he’d do it.

Delivered, and set up, and sold out by early afternoon, I decided it was best to get the man home safely.

Called my Best Beloved who was on the Downs with the dog and asked him to come and get the chutney man.

A few minutes later BB called to say he had fallen and badly sprained his ankle so no, he couldn’t do pick ups and deliveries.

So, now I had a man waiting for a lift home, and an injured husband.

I grabbed the son of friends, handily having a nice time at the event and not looking like he was about to do anything important, and asked that he would walk man down the street, wait with him whilst I got my car, and I would collect him, deliver him home and then drive to find my injured BB.

He did that with a lovely good grace and all was done.

Man was delivered hime safely. BB delivered home, bag of peas on his ankle and me back to the festivities.

Now, if I tell you that the badly sprained ankle turned out to be a pretty serious and unusual injury and needed two hours of surgery to fix, there was various and somewhat eccentric other stuff around the homemade stuff man which involved a mysterious bottle of martini, you might begin to think, ‘there is more to running a village festivities than I would have imagined’ and you’d be right.

I was at a supper recently when one of the guests said she couldn’t wait to leave the ‘hustle of town life for a village where the community is so much more cohesive, and everyone joins in.’

Two thoughts went through my mind: she was talking about leaving Petersfield (Hampshire market town, population 13,000, one Waitrose, four bookshops, a real market twice a week, a thriving am dram scene….) not exactly London, New York, Tokyo….

And secondly, village life has more social strata than a sedimentary cliff face – and no, not everyone joins in.

We know this on both counts, us who do join in and organise the village festivities.

So, for those of you not familiar with our festivities, let me set the scene:

The village main street is closed on the late May Bank Holiday and along it there are stalls, entertainments, the pub is packed, there is human fruit machine, a barbecue and other food and a carousel and trampoline, a very lucrative bottle stall … .

This is a couple of members of the music trio and stallholders patronising the tea stall before we opened.

Then, behind the street there is a dog show, sheep shearing, people dressed up in the costumes of the 17the century, archery, a splendid and extensive pop-up bookshop which is called the bookstall but you need to think 1,000 books not just a few…

Just before the festivities open, there is a march by members of The Old Club, with a local brass band along the street and back and that opens the event.

( That morning they have walked the bounds of the village and brought hazels and willows to decorate the street ends.)

This is all organised by a small group, and to claim a modicum of respectability, we call ourselves a committee. 

Let me give you  two vignettes which might prove my points about village life:

One :

Last year, I took over the management of the stalls on the street.

My predecessor had been doing this for several years before he left the village and, in handing over to me, he said ‘you spend a lot of time and a lot of emails making sure it works on the day.’ He was right.

I was very nervous and, being me not him who did it more or less by himself, I roped in two great, efficient and organised women ( first rule: make sure your deficiencies are covered) to make sure we had a plan of what went where and how it worked. 

And one day, whilst nipping to the shop to get a few things, I bumped into a neighbour from over the road. 

I asked her if she might be willing to give up a couple of hours first thing on the morning to help get the stallholders in the right place, with their cars off the street in good time etc etc.

(Detail not my strong point but throwing up my hands and asking for all sorts of help – now that’s my forte.)

She said yes – and I was very pleased. 

Anyway, on the day my carefully drawn plan was just a bit lacking in detail (a few stalls forgotten) but generally it worked. ( see above.)

The neighbour turned up, with her husband, at 8am, to do a couple of hours – and they were still there to do the clearing up at 8pm that night.

So, now she is one of those who joined in and is in charge of traffic marshalling and do you know what, it was very well organised this year.

(PS I heard that my predecessor drew up his plan of the stalls’ whereabouts the night before after having a few pre-Festivities drinks and again, do you know what, apparently, it worked fine…)

Two:

In order to be able to shut the main street for a day, we have to ensure that emergency vehicles have another route through.

Which in turn means we have to have marshalls at either end of the street to re-direct people – despite the signs people want to ask someone which way to go.

So, my in-charge neighbour was at one end of the street making sure cars were diverted when a woman approached with a car full of plants for the plant stall – she was at least a hour later than was specified by my email for getting vehicles unloaded and away from the street.

Now, the plant stall is a great seller and are usually cleared out by lunchtime – all locally grown and organised by the village horticultural society, so generally a good thing but some of the people who run it do seem to think they are exempt from the rules which work, apparently, perfectly well for the rest of us.

The driver was told she couldn’t go through because she had arrived after the street was shut, and every stallholder had been told to get their goods and cars off early before the march – and so she would have to park elsewhere.

The driver said (rudely) she was having none of that and drove at my marshalling friend, just by-passing her, and parked where she fancied.

There is a strata, or should it be stratum, of villagers who clearly view the hardworking volunteers running the festivities as the lower orders.

Welcome to village life.