The village fete is one of the great survivors of British life. It has outlasted rationing, decimalisation and the invention of the smartphone, and it still runs on roughly the same principles it did a century ago: a field, a marquee, a raffle, and an unspoken but fiercely observed hierarchy of cake-baking supremacy. Turn up expecting a quaint half-hour and you will leave four hours later, slightly sunburnt, carrying a marrow you did not intend to buy and nursing a grudge against a nine-year-old who beat you at the coconut shy.
Treat it properly, though, and a fete is one of the most enjoyable afternoons the British summer can offer. Here is how to do it right.
The single most important piece of advice is to get there for the opening. Stallholders set out their best stock first, and the good stuff goes quickly. The best cakes, the decent second-hand paperbacks, the homemade preserves with actual fruit in them — all of it is gone by half past two. Arriving at noon and wondering why only the rock-hard flapjack remains is a rookie error.
Bring cash. Lots of it, in small denominations. Many fetes now take card payments, but plenty still operate on a cash-and-honesty-box basis, and the tombola stall is not going to have a card reader. A fistful of pound coins and a few fivers will serve you far better than a twenty-pound note that nobody can change. A canvas bag is also essential, because you will buy more than you planned.
The cake stall is the spiritual heart of any fete, and it operates on a strict code. Everything is priced absurdly low, which is part of the charm and part of the trap. A Victoria sponge for two pounds is a bargain; four of them are a commitment.
Look for the cakes on proper china plates with a handwritten label. These are the ones baked by someone who has been entering the same competition for thirty years and knows exactly what she is doing. If a cake comes in a supermarket box that has been carefully opened and resealed, move on. If you spot a lemon drizzle with a slightly uneven top, buy it immediately — irregularity is the mark of a genuine home bake.
Do also check the produce stall. Marrows, runner beans, beetroot and jars of chutney appear in late summer, and the chutney is usually excellent. Buy a jar and put it away until Christmas; you will be glad you did.
The games are where the fete reveals its competitive soul. The tombola is pure chance — buy a strip of tickets, win a bottle of something or a tin of soup, and accept your fate with good grace. The coconut shy, by contrast, is a test of nerve and physics, and the coconuts are frequently heavier than they look.
Other staples to look out for include the hoopla, the treasure hunt on a hand-drawn map, the “guess the weight of the cake” competition, and the ever-popular “guess how many sweets are in the jar”. These cost pennies and confer enormous bragging rights. There is a particular kind of village glory attached to winning the raffle, and nobody is too dignified to check their ticket twice when the numbers are called.
Wellies or flat shoes are essential if any of this takes place on grass, and it usually does.
Some fetes still feature a maypole, and if you get the chance to watch one, take it. The dancing is genuinely old — a spring fertility tradition that survived centuries of disapproval — and the resulting plaited ribbon around the pole is either beautifully neat or a complete catastrophe, depending on the age of the dancers. Both outcomes are entertaining.
You may also encounter Morris dancers, possibly with bells, sticks and blacked-up faces in the Border tradition. The handkerchiefs are waved with more enthusiasm than precision, and the accordion player is almost always the loudest person present. Stand back, clap generously, and put a coin in the collecting tin.
Other regional curiosities worth watching for include the ancient tradition of cheese rolling, which is held on a steep hill and involves people tumbling after a wheel of Double Gloucester with no regard for their own safety.
Fetes are run by volunteers, usually the same six people every year, and they notice everything. A few small courtesies go a long way.
Check the parish noticeboard, the local newspaper or the church newsletter for dates, as many fetes are announced only a week or two in advance. Take a fold-up chair if you plan to watch the dog show, and keep an eye on the weather — a British fete in the rain is still a fete, just a damper, more intimate one. Go early, spend freely, enter everything, and you will understand exactly why this peculiar institution refuses to die.
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