Rainford Plough Competition
I had heard a number of strange aircraft above the house in the morning and it occurred to me that Southport Air Show was on today. I was impressed last year and it felt like a good day to laze about taking photos of aircraft again. Last year I managed to get within 10 miles of Southport before hitting traffic, this year I only managed to get 13 miles, and then when I took off into the country to bypass it I was confronted by traffic at every junction.
I gave up after an hour of trying to find an alternative route and found myself in a little place called Rainford. I noticed a field full of old Ferguson tractors and more attractively, a butty van, I was starving.
At the entrance to the field I was greeted by a transsexual farmer. Out of all the professions I would least expect a farmer to be transsexual, it’s like having a transsexual SAS soldier or merchant seaman, but hey ho! I grabbed a butty and walked around the farmers and their tractors. I don’t think there was a farmer under the age of 70 and a tractor under the age of 50. An old boy said something to me and I said, “I haven’t got a clue where I am or what’s going on, can you explain?”. He was delighted to talk and told me that I was watching a ploughing competition where each farmer was given a plot of land to plough and their goal was to plough it to the best of their ability, ensuring that each line of soil ploughed was turned over by 180 degrees and each line was perfectly straight. Everything was quite serious and the piss taking was rife.
Again it felt like summer and it felt like England. Fields are golden and the farmers are using the dry weather to harvest stuff. Many photographers have addressed the theme of what it is to be British, I’m not going to, but if I did I think I’d take many photographs about this time of years in conditions like this.
I gave up after an hour of trying to find an alternative route and found myself in a little place called Rainford. I noticed a field full of old Ferguson tractors and more attractively, a butty van, I was starving.
At the entrance to the field I was greeted by a transsexual farmer. Out of all the professions I would least expect a farmer to be transsexual, it’s like having a transsexual SAS soldier or merchant seaman, but hey ho! I grabbed a butty and walked around the farmers and their tractors. I don’t think there was a farmer under the age of 70 and a tractor under the age of 50. An old boy said something to me and I said, “I haven’t got a clue where I am or what’s going on, can you explain?”. He was delighted to talk and told me that I was watching a ploughing competition where each farmer was given a plot of land to plough and their goal was to plough it to the best of their ability, ensuring that each line of soil ploughed was turned over by 180 degrees and each line was perfectly straight. Everything was quite serious and the piss taking was rife.
Again it felt like summer and it felt like England. Fields are golden and the farmers are using the dry weather to harvest stuff. Many photographers have addressed the theme of what it is to be British, I’m not going to, but if I did I think I’d take many photographs about this time of years in conditions like this.
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