Discover Deep England During Fête Season

I want to remind all readers of the Daily Sceptic that in spite of what is seen on these pages and on the interweb, Deep England still exists; it can and must be visited and now tis the season to do so. The official fête season has begun, where England and the English are best viewed in their modest, decent, summer apparel.

In our county, deep in Wessex territory, we could happily attend a different fête every weekend from now until mid-September without having to travel more than seven miles. Most villages host a fête and each has its own character. The season in our vicinity kicked off this weekend with its annual Pram Race where villagers race in fancy dress two miles around narrow country lanes in decorated pram chassis. Wheels fall off and people are injured. Next weekend it’s the turn of a sleepy village recorded in the Doomsday Book as having three watermills and 37 slaves. The following weekend: a very smart village fete on the lawn of a very smart house where the children are invited to swim in the pool so long as they bring their ‘water-wings’.

At all events you will find decent people raising small amounts of money for their village – ours is split equally between the church and the village hall for furtherance of other village events and amenities. Cobwebbed bric-a-brac and books will be unboxed from various attics and outhouses, dusted down and set up prettily on ancient trestle tables. Next to the White Elephant table you may find a very elegant ‘outside trader’ who has paid perhaps £20 to set up stall for the table to sell handmade soap or honey. I was a little disappointed on Saturday when the enticing biltong stall turned out to be selling luxe dog treats.

Coconut shies are pretty much guaranteed and you can often try your hand at ‘bowling for a pig’ – a game of skittles where the winner bags a basket of pork products from the local butcher. There is a tea tent with hot urns on the go all day, and scones and cakes and brownies and biscuits all laid out on paper plates and doilies. In our neck of the woods, on the chalk downlands, we are lucky enough to have a number of vineyards selling English sparkling for those not satisfied with the cider and beer tents. Often vintage cars are parked up for people to admire. Our village grandees offer a ride in their helicopter as a raffle prize.

It is possible to spend a good few hours filling canvas bags with books and toys from the second-hand stalls, and sitting afterwards drowsily watching the dog show or petting the Shetland ponies or llamas that have been penned in the corner of the field to entertain the children. Some village fêtes provide helter-skelters or go-carts – ours is satisfied with finishing off the proceedings with a mass egg throwing competition.

Each fête will have come into being on the momentum of tradition and a number of committee meetings held in people’s dining rooms over a bottle of wine and cheese straws. Roles are allocated, risk assessments made for the ‘car park on a slope’ and plans hatched for stall placements. No-one is paid, all volunteer. Rotas will be created so that villagers both man the stalls and have time to enjoy the fête. Great efforts are made to ensure there are events to entice children: a bake off with a theme, a ‘garden on a plate’ competition, or ‘best hat’. The pleasures are simple and endure. Our middle son had his first kiss after a village fête and a bottle of cider. Our youngest son loves it when the toys for the children’s stall begin to be dropped off out our house weeks before the fête, allowing him a good rummage around first. The eldest runs the maggot race (last year was a failure as he tried frozen mail-order maggots and they didn’t wake up in time).

Every summer as we drink in the beauty of English villages, chatting with our friends next to the Hound Parade, or giving an arm to our elderly neighbour as she has a go at ‘whack the rat’, we feel a deep sense of gratitude to England at its best. Small and parochial fêtes may be, but they do give lie to the reigning Hobbesian philosophy of the past few hundred years – the lie that in our true state of nature we would all be at war with each other. It has been the prevailing political wisdom since Hobbess’ Leviathan that the state’s duty is to keep the peace, and we the people accept state limits on our freedoms to ensure that peace is kept. If the state needs to lie and deceive and make fearful its citizens, then, according to Hobbes and most political operators since, this is a moral good so long as peace is maintained.

Understanding the cooperation and camaraderie that is required to run a village fête and seeing all the villagers, from the squirarchy and farming families, to the newcomers, all mucking in together, convinces me Hobbes is wrong. If left to our own devices, I’m really not sure we would wage war ‘all against all’ but rather agree to turn on the tea urn and plan next year’s festivities.

Joanna Gray is a writer and confidence coach. She is looking for a publisher for FLOURISH: How to Help the Digital Generation Leave Home and Live Happy and Prosperous Lives. Please get in touch if interested.