IT HAS to be a sign of the ageing process that, having been an active participant for more years now that I care to (or can) remember, I am finding it increasingly difficult to go along to a show as a spectator.

On the rare occasion that I do, I find the ‘grumpy old man’ in me rising to the surface almost from the point that I set foot on the ground; it is all too easy to slip into moaning mode. Consequently I have set myself the task of seeking out the positives when the negatives start welling up, and within the last four weeks I have had plenty seeking to do.

It all started when I found myself as a visitor to at the Connemara Breed Show, held at the impressive Moreton Morrell College, near Stratford in Warwickshire. Having never been to this breed show previously, I was looking forward to it largely because I do admire the breed and recognise it as the greatest opposition to my own breed, the Welsh, in the ridden native classes particularly.

Unfortunately, the ridden classes had taken place the day before so the day was dedicated to the breeding classes where the juniors had yet to emerge as the beautiful swan-like creatures we see in the adult classes and the mares were thin on the ground.

So where were the positives, you may ask? I found myself asking the same question and found the answer in just looking around and taking in the occasion for here was a time-warp if ever I had seen one. Everything seemed to be done at a leisurely pace; there were only two rings as opposed to the plethora of rings experienced at most shows and the announcer, with her quintessential English county voice, seemed at peace with the world with no frantic calls from the loud speaker system piercing the peacefulness of the park in front of the ill-fated mansion house which has since been rebuilt following its fire. The handlers, mainly female, were comfortable in the dress code to which they all adhered which included various shades of velvet hunting cap, beautifully tailored hacking jackets, shirts and ties, slacks (do we call them that anymore?) or cords and, of course, the leather gloves. In some ways it was a pity that their young ponies didn’t look as attractive as their handlers due to sludgy greys, roans and various colours of dun dominating the classes. These youngsters take a bit of judging and I didn’t envy the task of those called upon to place the classes that day.

The occasion was capped by a good humoured and well-mannered committee, headed by the most gracious chairman who set the tone for the day; this, of course, is well-known horse racing personality, Henrietta Knight.

Travelling on the next day to the Royal Welsh Show, the scene could hardly have been more different. I am sure readers have become aware over the years of my passion for this show, one that sets itself apart from all others I have ever attended, so you may be surprised to learn that this event has currently lost its star appeal for me.

It seems to be ill-fated weather wise and it certainly is no one’s fault that incessant rain on the second day damped everything including spirits and turned the main ring into mud bath mainly thanks to contributions from both Dancing Diggers and The King’s Troop. I understand the logic behind decisions to run these attractions for the paying public. However one has to question the health and safety status of the ring as a consequence. Thankfully I had nothing to show otherwise the trip to Wales would have proved pointless as I think more of my ponies’ welfare than exhibit them under such awful conditions.

Looking to the bright side (to which I am committed) we can only look forward to the future following a half million pound improvement plan for the main ring modelled on the best rugby pitches in the principality.

The main ring is not the organisers’ only problem however as the show’s popularity also brings with it several organisational headaches such as clearing waste of all descriptions from the extensive stabling areas and maintaining adequate toilet facilities for the hundreds of exhibitors who descend upon the show ground for the week. A trip to the Ponies UK Summer Championships may give them some pointers as how to deal with the former, however, perhaps a few of the bowler hats, of which there are many, that frequent the main ring could find their way to this area during the course of the show as part of a stewarding role. It would also help if exhibitors took some personal responsibility for their actions and avoided making such a mess in the first place.

On the subject of personal responsibility, the mentality that pervaded the spectators in the grandstand during the judging of the Welsh cobs this year hit an all-time low this year, when an action of the judge to swap the first two places at the very last minute evoked loud booing from the section of the crowd following the class. There is no question that his handling of the class was questionable if not downright stupid, however it marks a sad day that a ‘yobbo’ response from onlookers marks the occasion and even sadder still that the main ring organisers failed to condone it over the loud speaker system. I’d like to find a positive spin on this action by perhaps admiring the enthusiasm and knowledge of the crowd, but knowing ‘cob’ politics, it would be more than a bit disingenuous.

However, at this show there is always enthusiasm in abundance as witnessed during the judging of the ridden Welsh cob classes, again in the main ring. The gallop past the grand stand evoked whoops and applause to an extent that it seemed to control the organisation of the classes as individuals literally went from a standstill to full gallop in a fly past. This pantomime performance compared dramatically with the traditional approach taken by the stewards in the adjacent hunter ring where thankfully normality prevailed and the judges were well served to place the classes in a more organised fashion. Better still Scotsman, Jack Cochrane, was in winning form taking the reserve ridden championship among the hunters with his novice ride, The Boss, a past in-hand champion at the show which dispels all theories that good in hand horses seldom, if ever, make it under saddle.

Completing a treble of shows visited last month, my last journey as a spectator took me to the Border Union Show, an old favourite, where in the early days I recall counting the rosettes in the basket at the Ponies of Britain Show to see if my eighth-placed pony would actually get one. Those were the days when the pastel shades of rosettes down the line still meant much to a novice exhibitor. Funnily my day brought me in contact with a group of exhibitors who were completely happy to accept any colour of rosette given to them when I was plucked from the ringside to judge the ‘coloured’ classes. Apparently, the well-known scheduled southern judge had mistaken the dates and was enjoying breakfast elsewhere when he should have been in Kelso. Too far away to rectify the situation, yours truly was asked to stand in to sort one of the most popular and extensive sections of the day.

Having accepted under some duress but understanding the difficulty presented to the show organisers, I set upon the task somewhat tentatively, not because of the task ahead, nor because I am not a panel judge for this section but because I wasn’t able to don my judging outfit (or is it armour). One thing for certain, there was no form to follow since I didn’t know a soul and I had no knowledge of the animals presented for judging. In many ways it was an ideal situation for all concerned and although it proved to be a long day, I did enjoy it.

Yet again, I was struck by the helpful, friendly nature of the stewards who assisted me with my task; we should never underestimate their importance. Secondly, I was really impressed by the ‘coloured’ exhibitors, who, to a man woman and child were so friendly and appreciative. There was also a naivety about them and their performances which was most endearing; the over-rehearsed performances and the professional pressures just didn’t seem to exist which I found very refreshing and note worthy nonetheless. Long may it continue, I say. It certainly made an otherwise ‘grumpy old man’ reassured and content with the showing world after 10 days of mixed emotions.