South: Lambeth Country Show Every year, in Brockwell Park, Lambeth comes out to play. The rolling hillocks of the park may not be proper countryside with fields and cows and combine harvesters and that, but they do make a great setting for any medium-to-large public event. So for two days every July thousands of people turn up to pretend they don't live in relentless inner suburbia, and enjoy all the fun of the fair instead. Yes, there are sheep. There was a bloke yesterday standing on the back of a trailer giving some befuddled-looking woolly quadruped the once-over with his shears. Children sat enraptured on the grass as shearer Billy Kinghorn immobilised the sheep with a few bodily movements, then whipped off the animal's winter coat. Nextdoor the Berkley Owls trailer stood empty and unwatched while their protégés were off entertaining the crowds in the main arena. If all of this looking at animals had made you hungry, the main footpath down the hill was lined with stalls selling barbecued animal and watermelon. Jerk chicken was a favourite, this being nearly Brixton, and the lunchtime queues waited patiently to grease their stomachs. Nearby was a talent-packed flower show tent, just like at a proper country fair, as well as a villageful of stalls promoting local businesses and community groups. Two of the Herne Hill Stitch and Bitchers sat knitting outside an irrelevant tent, while various volunteers hung around trying to give away leaflets about health services or housing benefit. I missed out on the free jam sandwich being given out by the Warburtons drones, but got two squirts of Factor 50 from the mole-check lady doling out skin cancer advice. At the bottom of the hill, tucked away behind the funfair, dads and kids sat astride the world's smallest public railway and took rides beneath the trees towards the lido and back. Jousting knights drew crowds to the upper arena (huzzah!), everybody keenly watching in case Sir Bedevere might fall off his horse or be whacked in the head by a spinning quintain. Alas not. The first reggae band of the day warmed up on the main stage, and early picknickers sprawled out on the slopes enjoying the food, space and atmosphere. Not especially rural anywhere on site, to be honest, more a diverse marketplace with entertainment liberally attached. But ever so well done, and ever so appreciated. [open for business again today][typical Lambeth Country Fair photograph]
East: Shoreditch Festival Across the capital, a subtly different sort of event. The Shoreditch Festival also runs every year, also in a big park, also attracting thousands. But this is a rather more urban affair, with a dash more high culture thrown in, in deference to the surrounding Hackneyists and Hoxtonites. Shoreditch Park lacks the contours that make Brockwell special, and the only major feature of interest is a big rock dumped in the middle for bouldering purposes. The festival committee have added colour with fluttering flags and twirly green fabric things, making the most of the space available. Yesterday beside the granite was a row of community stalls, this time including canalfolk and War on Want. I tempted by the tombola being run by a cheery bunch from a local women's voluntary group. My five tickets didn't win me the tube of Aquafresh toothpaste or the tin of ox tongue, but I did walk off with 750ml of citrus-scented bleach. That's Shoreditch class, for you. Crouching nearby I recognised celebrity choirmaster Gareth Malone, busy being filmed for his next BBC2 series. He'd just conducted the London Symphony Orchestra (and the fledgling South Oxhey Community Choir) in some choral extravaganza on the main stage, and was looking as if the challenge had gone well. The soulful sounds of Baby Charles were now entertaining the crowd, slouched out on the grass conveniently close to the burger vans and chicken curry queues. A posse of firefighters strode by with smoke alarm leaflets in hand, rapidly snapped up by ladies keen to engage in conversation with a man in uniform. Elsewhere a slightly tongue-in-cheek dog show was in full swing. Prizes were awarded for the "best tail wagging dog" and "best vocal performance", as well as a special six-legged category rating both dog and owner combined. The local beekeepers had jars of their honey for sale, as had been also the case in Brockwell, although here they were also selling a greener lifestyle as part of the Earth Tent. Another tent, the silver Dance Dome, hid merry tea dancing pensioners, while the Pearly Queenof Islington preferred her tea sitting down in the refreshment tent. A few revellers were still wearing their costumes from the parade that had kicked off the afternoon - most in muted purple, but one resplendent in top-to-toe tinfoil. Wizard of Oz float, presumably, or maybe he was just feeling chilly. Nothing here was quite so straight-forward as had been the case south of the river, but both were well-organised and entertaining events to enjoy on a July afternoon. [also taking place today, but with a rather more music/film/youth theme][typical Shoreditch Festival photograph]
Every year, in Brockwell Park, Lambeth comes out to play. The rolling hillocks of the park may not be proper countryside with fields and cows and combine harvesters and that, but they do make a great setting for any medium-to-large public event. So for two days every July thousands of people turn up to pretend they don't live in relentless inner suburbia, and enjoy all the fun of the fair instead. Yes, there are sheep. There was a bloke yesterday standing on the back of a trailer giving some befuddled-looking woolly quadruped the once-over with his shears. Children sat enraptured on the grass as shearer Billy Kinghorn immobilised the sheep with a few bodily movements, then whipped off the animal's winter coat. Nextdoor the Berkley Owls trailer stood empty and unwatched while their protégés were off entertaining the crowds in the main arena.
If all of this looking at animals had made you hungry, the main footpath down the hill was lined with stalls selling barbecued animal and watermelon. Jerk chicken was a favourite, this being nearly Brixton, and the lunchtime queues waited patiently to grease their stomachs. Nearby was a talent-packed flower show tent, just like at a proper country fair, as well as a villageful of stalls promoting local businesses and community groups. Two of the Herne Hill Stitch and Bitchers sat knitting outside an irrelevant tent, while various volunteers hung around trying to give away leaflets about health services or housing benefit. I missed out on the free jam sandwich being given out by the Warburtons drones, but got two squirts of Factor 50 from the mole-check lady doling out skin cancer advice. At the bottom of the hill, tucked away behind the funfair, dads and kids sat astride the world's smallest public railway and took rides beneath the trees towards the lido and back.
Jousting knights drew crowds to the upper arena (huzzah!), everybody keenly watching in case Sir Bedevere might fall off his horse or be whacked in the head by a spinning quintain. Alas not. The first reggae band of the day warmed up on the main stage, and early picknickers sprawled out on the slopes enjoying the food, space and atmosphere. Not especially rural anywhere on site, to be honest, more a diverse marketplace with entertainment liberally attached. But ever so well done, and ever so appreciated.
Across the capital, a subtly different sort of event. The Shoreditch Festival also runs every year, also in a big park, also attracting thousands. But this is a rather more urban affair, with a dash more high culture thrown in, in deference to the surrounding Hackneyists and Hoxtonites. Shoreditch Park lacks the contours that make Brockwell special, and the only major feature of interest is a big rock dumped in the middle for bouldering purposes. The festival committee have added colour with fluttering flags and twirly green fabric things, making the most of the space available. Yesterday beside the granite was a row of community stalls, this time including canalfolk and War on Want. I tempted by the tombola being run by a cheery bunch from a local women's voluntary group. My five tickets didn't win me the tube of Aquafresh toothpaste or the tin of ox tongue, but I did walk off with 750ml of citrus-scented bleach. That's Shoreditch class, for you.
Crouching nearby I recognised celebrity choirmaster Gareth Malone, busy being filmed for his next BBC2 series. He'd just conducted the London Symphony Orchestra (and the fledgling South Oxhey Community Choir) in some choral extravaganza on the main stage, and was looking as if the challenge had gone well. The soulful sounds of Baby Charles were now entertaining the crowd, slouched out on the grass conveniently close to the burger vans and chicken curry queues. A posse of firefighters strode by with smoke alarm leaflets in hand, rapidly snapped up by ladies keen to engage in conversation with a man in uniform.
Elsewhere a slightly tongue-in-cheek dog show was in full swing. Prizes were awarded for the "best tail wagging dog" and "best vocal performance", as well as a special six-legged category rating both dog and owner combined. The local beekeepers had jars of their honey for sale, as had been also the case in Brockwell, although here they were also selling a greener lifestyle as part of the Earth Tent. Another tent, the silver Dance Dome, hid merry tea dancing pensioners, while the Pearly Queen of Islington preferred her tea sitting down in the refreshment tent. A few revellers were still wearing their costumes from the parade that had kicked off the afternoon - most in muted purple, but one resplendent in top-to-toe tinfoil. Wizard of Oz float, presumably, or maybe he was just feeling chilly. Nothing here was quite so straight-forward as had been the case south of the river, but both were well-organised and entertaining events to enjoy on a July afternoon.
