Why I was proud of the farming community after the Great Yorkshire Show - Jo Thorp

The white show smocks have been through the washing machine twice and still have shadows of ingrained grass and dirt stains.

The barbeque and camping stove have needed some serious elbow grease to get them hygienic again and the horsebox has had a deep clean.

Muddy boots and an even grubbier child have left it looking like something from Glastonbury.

However, the camping and trailer parking fields on the showground couldn’t have been any further removed from the famous festival fields, with every bit of rubbish, every discarded burger and beer bottle, bagged up and in the rubbish bins.

There were no torn abandoned tents and their associated rubbish left lying in the fields, no major clean up operation needed.

We were meticulous in picking up every last bottle top and sweet wrapper, as were the many hundreds of others we shared a space with for the week.

Perhaps it’s a farmer thing, the need to look after the land and not abuse it.

Whatever the reason I’m always proud driving away and seeing the site as it was when we arrived, albeit some patches of flattened grass.

The show sheep were returned to their fields to stretch their legs and enjoy some lush green grass. Ordinarily I always enjoy watching them come charging down the ramp and bouncing off across the fields.

However, on this occasion their sudden appearance and exuberance at their freedom proved too shocking for Dotti, our Welsh pony, who took one look at the sheep she regularly shares her field with and set off like an exploded firework across the field.

Seeing this as a game, the Bluefaced Leicester girls took chase, leaping for joy off all fours in Dotti’s direction.

Poor Dotti, still recovering from her run-in with an adder, decided the bright yellow lunatics heading in her direction were definitely not known to her and the only course of action was to plough headlong through a barbed wire fence.

I stood at the gate staring in utter disbelief as yet another monumental vet bill unfolded before my eyes, whilst Fioled, the other pony, grazed nonchalantly, quite oblivious to Dotti’s histrionics.

Thankfully an old, slightly rotten post gave way and Dotti broke through into the next field to join the safety of the non bright yellow sheep.

As waves of disbelief washed over me, the dry Yorkshire mutterings of my other half sounded behind me.

“That went well then” he said.

“Indeed” I snapped.

After a barrage of expletives directed at no-one and nothing I found a headcollar and headed off to retrieve the pony and to assess the damage whilst screaming back at Paul to stop using barbed wire.

There was surprisingly little damage, just a few minor scratches. She’d got away lightly considering.

I bathed her shoulder, dried it and smeared the area with a strong antiseptic cream before relocating the offending sheep and heading inside for a stiff drink.