Will’s World: Royal Welsh betrays how quickly the years turn
© Richard Stanton “I think we should split up”, said the present Mrs Evans assertively.
I’d always worried it would happen one day, but I hadn’t expected it to come in quite such a public location: a particularly busy aisle at the Royal Welsh Show, sandwiched as we were between a craft tent and a stand flogging overpriced country clothing.
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But just as I was about to say, “well you can take the kids, but you’re not getting the dogs”, I realised she meant we should go in different directions for a bit and meet up again later.
Quite the relief, given that our solicitor has already earned enough from us these last few months sorting out the IHT situation.
The thing is, I hate shopping, and there aren’t many things in life I’d less rather do.
I’d already been fleeced by our numerous daughters, within 10 minutes of arriving, for Grassmen hoodies at £45 a pop, so I wasn’t really in the mood for a gentle amble around the tat stalls to part with even more of our hard-earned cash.
After all, as every good farmer knows, that’s what the machinery section is for.
Calon hapus
So off I went, with a spring in my step and a song in my heart, to look longingly at shiny trucks and tractors, temporarily freed of all parental and spousal responsibilities.
The devil on my shoulder whispered that I should turn my phone off for the day, but fortunately (or not), the angel prevailed, and it wasn’t too long before we were back together and heading up to the cattle ring to admire the various prizewinners.
I say we, but by now most of our offspring had long-since disappeared with their friends, and we were left with just the intrepid youngest.
It’s funny how time makes fools of us, isn’t it. It seems like yesterday that we were pushing them around the show in buggies as proud new parents, with elderly Welsh women stopping us every few yards to coo over them.
Their husbands would lean on their sticks and push their caps back, knowing they’d be there for a while, and roll their eyes at me conspiratorially.
Free whizz
We’ve got photos of them as mucky-faced toddlers, covered in stickers and wearing free hats that are several sizes too big, standing on the railings and excitedly pointing at the displays in the main ring.
A few years back they had a competition to see who could get the most free stuff throughout the day, and we came home with close to a hundred pens and countless other items.
We stopped for a meal in a pub on the way home, and they laid all their hard-earned prizes out on the table, laughing uproariously while we judged who was the winner.
In recent years it’s been slightly more civilised, and we’ve watched the Young Farmers’ competitions, cheered on the sheep shearers, and made a lot of other happy memories together.
We knew that soon enough we’d be cramping their style, and they’d want to be with their mates instead.
And now it’s happened, and it’s OK. A bit strange, and undoubtedly quieter, but OK.
I’d say that the present Mrs Evans and I could carry on with the civilised conversation that was so rudely interrupted when our eldest was born nearly 15 years ago, but that’ll have to wait for a bit longer, as the youngest spent most of the day pestering me to buy her Saddleback pigs and Highland cattle.
Of course, there’s only one answer a dad can give to these sorts of requests: “We’ll see.”