Blindingham Hall September 30 1862

Oh, how tiresome it is to be in great demand for village events!

For a number of years when I was growing up, Papa would preside over the annual meat fair – a celebration of butchery and farming which excited those in the village who needed to preserve supplies for the winter months. Those whose seasonal picking incomes would not allow for regular visits to the market, but who would happily wrap offcuts in salted muslin and eke them out as watery soup til the Spring. You may remember the Christmas goose whose submerged carcass was unfit for my table? That was the work of an undercook whose mother had been a picker, poor woman. I had to dismiss the girl, she was never going to outgrow such impoverished culinary roots.

When Papa left for London, the role of Master of the Meat Fair fell to Josiah – who relished the opportunity to stand on a crate in the square and bestow his judgement on the shanks and shoulders paraded before him. I was not present at these gatherings, but admit to being the beneficiary of a little local butcher-bribery. The prize was notoriety for miles around, guaranteeing a steady flow of customers throughout the year, and the cuts that did not impress were distributed amongst the villagers, who then bartered for what was left. I found the whole process a little unseemly, in truth.

Late last month I was approached to stand as Mistress of the Meat Fair partly because I am the owner of the Hall but principally because there is no-one else in this parish who does not genuinely need the produce on show. So my civic duty over-rode my distaste for once and yesterday I stood atop a milking stool and smiled as if I were at the circus.

Placed at my feet was a succession of slaughtered animals, some rent asunder by the sharpest of butcher’s knives, others presented shorn or plucked but whole – all laid out for my inspection. Chickens, rabbits, sheep, cows and pigs – many still warm from being caught – lay waiting for my verdict. I hardly knew where to start.

The most prominent offering was a large, uncut pig. His skin was pale pink and slightly moist and the small, dark currant eyes were still in his head. He was swollen with whatever the farmer had fed him for the purposes of showing him off, sparse hairs poked from his chin, and I felt that at the slightest touch his skin would split open to let the fat ooze forth.

Farmers, Butchers and expectant villagers crowded my stool, waiting for me to award the First and Second Prize, which would herald the the commencement of trading for the losing beasts. The pig lay there, facing the crowd but wholly reliant on my word. Its fate was in one sense already decided – slaughtered at its youthful, juiciest point – but in another sense entirely in my hands.

So I made my decisions and placed the rosettes. I pointed downwards to a pig whose head and legs had already been removed and cried:

‘To the farmer of this creature, and the butcher of its body I present the Half-Ham award’ There was much cheering and patting on backs and joshing amongst those responsible for the dismembered runner up. The farmer snatched it up, dancing with joy and swearing to be back next year with the winner. Silence fell again and I gestured towards the shiny, bloated pig I had chosen.

‘This year, people of Blindingham, it gives me great pleasure to give this fine example of force-fed succulence, at the peak of its porcinity, the pinnacle of it’s pig bred perfection… ‘ (I began to see why Josiah had enjoyed this role so much) the top prize today. I give this creature the Full Ham award!’

I stepped down from my stool, helped by the jubilant breeder whose income I had just secured for the next year. I did not stay to watch the scraps being fought over, and tried to note the shoulder brands so that if any of it turned up in the kitchens at the Hall I could make sure it was fed to the dogs.

I may be asked again next year, and if yesterday’s experience is to be trusted as a guide I may well accept.