Sylvia A Dinsdale,
Gate Helmsley, York.

I have been connected with agriculture all my life (I am now 77). Going to the Great Yorkshire was one of the highlights of my year. In actual fact, it was the only "holiday" I got. I should explain that like many
other farm children, I worked at home on my grandfather's farm, doing pretty well any job, but mainly milking the cows and delivering
milk in York.

However, to the GYS, this was the "shop window" in the early years before official milk recording, a place for pedigree cattle breeders
to show good animals and encourage other breeders to see what we had to offer for sale.

I was sent to my first Yorkshire after the Second World War.

The show was at Malton (an estate at Butcher Corner – I think). It was a lovely site, on top of a hill. The problem with it was that the water pressure was very low, and demand was very high, it took ages to water the cattle and I had seven to look after on my own.

There's a photo of me with a cow called Heworth Joybell (a variety of apple actually), the only name I can remember after all this time.

I went to the GYS when it first went to its permanent home at Harrogate. We still slept beside the cattle in the straw under canvas. One of the best things about going was meeting old friends, herdsmen some of whom were famous in their own right, from big well-known herds. Most of all was the friendliness, many of them would make you a very welcome cup of tea first thing in the morning; or even bacon and egg for breakfast, all cooked on a Primus stove. Everyone had to do their own catering in those days. It was sometimes difficult to exclude the hay seeds from the frying pan. My mother used to bake me a batch of pies to take with me, they went down well too.

Later on there was a good canteen for us, and after that dormitories, so that we didn't necessarily have to sleep next to the animals. The only snag was that these places were originally made of wood and every sound echoed. If someone came in late and stumbled round in heavy boots looking for their number, or worse still if someone was a heavy snorer.

I loved the night before the first day's judging because the herdsmen used to go in a group to have a good look round at the other livestock lines, ie goats, where we used to tease the ladies who pampered them to death.

Best of all I loved the flower tent where I could watch the growers setting up their exhibits. They worked hard all night, some of the great names were the rose growers. For example, Harry Wheatcroft, Samuel McGredy and Dixons of Northern Ireland. Grand Mere Jenny is still my favourite rose.

When the show got bigger and the facilities were better, the cattle were housed in permanent concrete cowsheds, all with separate stalls. We herdsmen used to be up early and after milking we used to bed down and swill out, to make everything look nice and clean for visitors coming in.

However, as usual Thursdays were for the school children and I remember standing at the top end of the Friesian cattle shed, admiring the view after we had been swilling out, when I saw this kid holding a water pistol. I had a cow called Heworth Dewdrop among my charges, she was a Harold Jackson trophy winner and not the best of characters to handle, even for me. I knew what was going to happen, when this lad emptied the water pistol at her backside, anyway she lashed out at him, missing his face by centimetres. I think that my face was whiter than the cow (she was nearly all white). If she had caught him, she could easily have broken his neck.

Another amusing thing was my sister Janet coming to the show with me – this was when we still slept next to the cattle. She had been dying to come to the show, because she knew how much fun I had and she was a keen gardener and flower arranger and she had heard me describe the work in the flower tent. She was so tired on the first night that she fell asleep and poured a whole mug of cocoa over herself as she slept, but it didn't wake her up. We didn't find out until next morning, it caused a great deal of amusement among the rest of us.

Most of all I remember the comradeship, always unquestioning and freely given, whether or not you represented a small herd, or if you worked for a big famous one. From giving a hand to carry in your "show box" and other gear and heavy fodder, to the loan of a clean white smock, to a white halter or a dandy brush.

We always sat around in our cattle lines in groups having a good natter about anything and everything, for being "escorted" in groups to the pictures in Harrogate sometimes, at night.

I understand from my grandfather who used to do the showing himself, before the war, that a marvellous entertainment was put on especially for the stockmen in a marquee in the evenings, featuring some very well known artists.

I can honestly say that these days were some of the happiest of my life.

Clare Horsfield, Silkstone, Barnsley.

On the second Monday in July after the heat of the day at around 5 o'clock, Tom and his father would begin to cut the roses. With about 1,000 blooms required and 55,000 growing in the field, it would take a while. Finding the quantity of a variety in various stages of bloom was not as simple as it first appeared. As soon as enough of a variety had been chosen they would be plunged up to their necks in buckets of ice-cold water.

As the evening light began to fade around 9.30pm Tom and I would set of to the showground in the van
with the roses in the back (minus most of the water). The journey took about an hour and driving down Hookstone Road our excitement mounted. The night security man on the gate waved us through to the compound at the rear of the Flower Hall.

Chinks of light from the assorted caravans, camper vans and trailers that were parked there told us that their occupants were having a well-earned rest. Our trusty caravan which my father
had towed to the showground remained in total darkness. Cool fresh night air greeted us. The sliding doors of the Flower Hall were wide open.

The black of the night framed a picture. Bright lights and colours burst into view. We stepped into the picture. Our senses were kidnapped. A profusion of perfumes stole our sense of smell, our eyes forced to admire the illuminated beauty of the blooms, a myriad of magnificent arrangements for our delectation. The stillness enveloped us in its calm.

The Flower Hall security man nodded a greeting. The scene was near perfect except for one very empty island stand – ours! The long process of de-thorning the roses and arranging them in in their single-variety display stands began.

Each arrangement had a name card written by Tom's mum in her copperplate script – Summer Sunshine, Peace, Fragrant Cloud, Blue Moon, Piccadilly, Lavender Lassie to name but a few. Old varieties but great varieties. At around 3am the roses
had been preened to perfection and looking at their best. They would still look good on Thursday,
late evening, last-minute cutting being the secret. One final viewing before
judging took place in a few hours' time.

What a privilege. Tom and I and the security man, a Flower Show all to ourselves. How could we ever forget
the sight, sound and smell? We revelled in our fortune. The fabulous Interflora stand that occupied the whole of the end wall, the Rose Growers – Wheatcroft's, Nostell Priory, Fryers, Blackmore and Langdon delphiniums. Nothing could be bought, only orders taken. How times have changed. Thirty-five years have slipped by since our Gold Medal winning days, but the memories are as potent and fragrant as ever.

Mrs Jean Blackburn, Grantley, Ripon.

"I'm going to marry a farmer". I plainly remember saying that. My dad and I were standing under the slowly turning sails of Skidby mill. It was 1919 and I was eight years old and had
just spent a glorious week with a schoolfriend at her father's farm a few miles away. My father, safely
home at last after five long years of war, had cycled
from Beverley to take me home – sitting on a cushion on the back carrier.

It was 10 years before I met my farmer. He told me that he had vowed he'd be a farmer after he'd stayed at a farm in Shropshire to recover from a tonsil operation
when he was 10. When he left school he faced stiff opposition from his parents and also from the the fact that he had no farming background.

The next years were a
hard slog, working on a variety of farms and studying in his spare time for a diploma in agriculture. In 1934 he eventually got the tenancy of a farm and took it over lock, stock and barrel. Not a good time for farming in the Thirties.

I was going to join him there when we were married the next year but in 1935 he'd asked me to go with him to the Great Yorkshire Show, my first visit. Sleek, groomed animals waiting patiently, weathered farmers lining the rails, waiting for the judging. Dressed-up wives trawling the stands. School-free children everywhere. The band playing. The show jumping was spectacular.

We were taking a tea break in the NFU tent when Edward, Prince of Wales walked in. I remember how pleasant he looked. Smiling, carefree and more attractive than newspaper photographs. There was a sudden silence. "What! No beer for the farmers? he joked and we all laughed. A nice finish to a perfect day.