A Show of Beauty and Endurance

I have to admit, I had never heard of Kilnsey, let alone the 'Kilnsey Show and Sports' before I was whisked off Yorkshire-bound from Bristol one early morning at the end of August. Invited by a special someone who grew up in the area and promised a day of good, hearty fun - how could I possibly resist such an intriguing invitation?

We arrived mid-morning to be ushered into a free car park close to the domineering Kilnsey Crag, which provided a hardy, strong backdrop to the show ground nestled safely in the basin of an expansive valley.

As I opened the car door, I was immediately aware of being in an outlandish environment - not only was the temperature a fair few degrees chiller, but the broad accents of the two young stewards who'd directed us to our spot instantly beguiled, intrigued and enticed me with their jovial banter. One of the lads was sarcastically teasing the other about needing a bacon sandwich, the other replied: "Too right you need one, I've seen more fat on a butcher's pencil!"

Had to smile - I'd never heard this expression before. A harmless, playful comment, but it gave me a sense of the Yorkshire lilt. The dew from the grass wet my feet and I was glad I second-thoughted my lambs wool jumper - a flimsy cardigan was never going to be enough.

Being a self-confessed country bumpkin and no stranger to agricultural shows - I thought I'd be au fait with the general ambience and warm bovine smell, but things are definitely markedly different up this way. Some of the familiar signifiers are there: old codgers in tweed, flamboyant, over-exuberant food demonstrations, tents with meticulously-manicured cattle lined up with their patterned rears pointing towards impressionable visitors' faces.

Then you stumble across the dry stone walling competition - men fitting magnificently misshaped grey pieces of Yorkshire history neatly into place like an ancient game of Tetris, strangely mesmerising and endearing to see such mastery of a craft that has probably died out in more meagre areas of the country.

It was encouraging to see teams of fathers and sons - well younger men in general taking such weighted care of their heritage. There's a distinct level of proudness at play and playfully attuned - yes that's what was beginning to set Kilnsey apart from the other shows I've visited.

Just as the rain turns from a barely-bearable drizzle to angry spitting - so the brass band kick into energetic action with a melt-your-heart-as-well-as-the-precipitation rendition of 'Singing In the Rain'. The warming tones made me forget my shivers - nothing a strong coffee or a cider wouldn't curb anyway.

Next, we decided to take in the marquees filled with local crafts and culinary treasures. There were definitely one or two names that kept appearing against red-for-first certificates.

After a hearty chuckle at the odd shaped veg, warped flower ensembles and magnificent culinary concoctions we ventured outside again.

Cracking leeks and lovingly polished courgettes in neat pairs.

We were too late to see the cakes in their full glory - but the smell alone was a welcome treat as we entered the baked goods tent. Even though the entries were covered in protective/prohibitive plastic sheeting, we salivated and jested about the rationale behind the jam to cream to sponge ratio, which was often inconsistent with some of the Victoria Ss. How does anyone come up with the idea of making a pizza look like a scene from the Little Mermaid? It was obviously pain-stakingly put together and bizarrely brilliant, but who could justifiably eat it without feeling guilty?

Hot and sticky with the bustle of bargain-seeking bodies, the food court provided a suitable rain diversion. Top marks definitely went to a dazzling display of cupcakes (not the over-fussy feats of fantasy you witness in city stores), pretty, simple edible elegance.

We knew the smug (but rightly so) baker would have an empty display cabinet before tea-time.

Alongside her stall, there were others displaying more varieties of Wensleydale than you could ever conceivably tire of - but the most impressive array of morsels were of the pork pie variety. Never having eaten one before myself, I had presumed there was only one type of pork pie, but this local vendor displayed around 8 to 10 variants of these golden-facaded orbs of bewitching filling. I still wasn't tempted - but I was certainly tempted by the fresh fish counter's contents.

Whole trout, filleted trout, trout pate, trout medley - I doubt Bubba Gump could have come up with more ways to harvest a sea creature. But alas, they'd run out of trout sandwiches... which was what we were craving. Fortunately, the lady behind the counter assured us there was no shortage of sandwiches - we'd just have to go over the road to the trout farm and retrieve them from the cafe there.

A little mellowed from our midday tipple - my sprightly companion challenged me to a hike up the crag. Plenty of people were doing it, you could see pin-pricks of colour dotted up the escarpment and a few at the very top - so yes, why not? I was in training for the Bristol Half Marathon at the time, so I was in a 'yes' mood.

Well, the first tier was fairly gentle. We snaked through the grass which was a little slippy, but not too steep. Then, the grass ran out and the steepest most daunting gauntlet ensued. Inappropriate footwear aside - I began to feel a little worried - if I fell now, would I even make the Half Marathon the following week?

Taking our time and using hands to grip the rubble (refraining from looking downwards), we ascended with trepidation. It was arduous - the loose stones providing little security, but the sight of the flags at the top were a beacon to focus on. Out of breath and soaked in a misty drizzle, I soon forgot my pounding limbs and took in the sublime panorama. It was hard to believe that in a few hours, hundreds of people (young and old) would be running up this escarpment and heading straight back down again for the crag racing - with absolutely no time or inclination to admire the view.

We walked along the top of the ridge: there was no way either of us were braving the same route down. Even if this slope was covered in snow and I had my skis on - I'd still be a bit dubious about it.

Needless to say it took us a lot longer to get down, as we had to contend with slippery, wet grass. The homely-looking pub below acted as our focal point. Once safely inside, we joined the other equally triumphant and bedraggled ramblers escaping the drizzle.

I'm not much of an ale drinker, but I thought it would be positively rude not to sample a local brew. A honey-tinted, well-rounded half slipped down like a treat as we laughed and ruminated about the prospect of a "warm breakfast salad" advertised on the specials board. We were strangers to this pub, it was the early afternoon on a Tuesday - but this place had all the right ingredients associated with a leisurely bank holiday.

Damp but content after a second half of the golden liquor, we decided it best to get back to the show before we became part of the well-worn furniture... or fell victim to the ominous warm breakfast salad. As we left, one of the show's dignitaries (an old boy positively leaking tweed from every orifice) joined a group in the corner - looking every bit as proud as his attire and badges suggested. I wondered if he'd snuck out of the official show lunch hosted in the pomped-up judges marquee (imagine all the thrills and meringue-balloon drapery of a gypsy wedding) to mix with the riff-raff and savour a quick tipple?

Out in the cold and perma-drizzle again, we realised that we'd need something more than a brisk walking to fend off another fit of shivers, so coffee and flapjack was agreed on. As we left the food tent (and yes, the cupcake lady could nearly afford to pack up and get home a contented woman), we heard the announcement for the start of the crag racing, so we got a good spot near the finish line - though we could already see fast-moving maniacs scurrying up and across the hill that we'd struggled with a few hours earlier. This first batch were the under 12s, the first intrepid souls to pass us were muddy (some scuffed and bloodied), didn't appear to give even a jot of pain or anguish away in their faces - pure focus and dedication shined through.

Massive cheers of support rippled around as every new runner passed by - mostly boys, though a few iron-willed girls crossed the line at a sprint.

The open race featured burly men, the odd athletic-type, a handful of over 60s - all or mostly in unassuming, unpretentious attire, some strapped into walking boots or spikes rather than trainers.

I relished witnessing the camaraderie beyond the finish line. Many pats-on-the-back around the (one and only) water bucket where the runners were sponging mud off their legs. This appeared primitive, but strangely compelling and appropriate for such an event. I doubt this scene would be replicated at my Half Marathon in Bristol.

What a staggering feat of human will-power. Seeing these people conquor such a sharp and treacherous incline made me realise that I could do more to up-the-ante with my own running training.

The shivers were beginning to take over again, so we decided to go and investigate the Kilnsey Trout Farm, just on the other side of the show's perimeter. As we entered the cafe, they were beginning to close-down the kitchen, but we managed to persuade the girl on the counter that we'd driven from Bristol to sample the trout and we couldn't possibly leave without a sandwich. She didn't make so much as a murmur of an objection, so five minutes later we were tucking into sandwiches bursting with juicy pink flakes of trout with mayonnaise accompanied by thick crisps and salad. It was just gorgeous and well-deserved to sit inside and watch the ducks pootling around in the fishing lakes beyond the window.

Tired but content, we went back to the show for the final and hotly-anticipated event of the trotting races. As the sun dipped below the softening line of the crag, an array of traps, clinking and clattering along the way appeared from the far side of the track and began their debut parade. As with all the other beasts on display throughout the day, the horses were immaculately turned-out and the jockeys' silks were predictably and charmingly gordy.

No expenses spared, the commentator stood on a rickety scafolding tower, cursing his dodgy mic, which was faltering every time he shifted to a certain spot on his platform. A few jokes were made and the serious talk resumed. The thrill, the powerful yet steady trotting gait of the horses, the heavy clatter of their chariots all culminated in a heady mix, and a climatic charge amongst the spectators and bookies booths just behind.

We were only going to stay for a couple of races, but we ended up staying until the rosettes were handed out by the lady judge. By this time, the commentator up on his solitary podium looked ready to descend again into the furor and celebrate with the rest of show's crew in the beer tent - surreptitiously positioned beyond the field of pimped-up 4x4s and horse boxes. Temped to join him? Yes, ever-so-slightly. But it really was cold and my companion had a long drive ahead.

As the sun dipped lower, casting honey-tones over the hills and valleys, we meandered homeward through the commanding landscape - I sank lower in my seat, enjoying the warmth in the car, following a spectacular sunset.

Reflecting on the day, I really enjoyed observing the quiet confidence exuded by the breeders, showers, craftsmen at Kilnsey - they all knew their strengths and owned every right to that proudness. I loved the lay of the land and the crag racers' determination to both be at one with and master the tumultuous terrain, even if it meant having to soap themselves down with a bucket of muddy water and tend to bleeding knees in return.

There was just the right level of humour, true sportsmanship and bravado to keep me entertained - it is tough up north, but I didn't hear a single grumble from either man nor beast.