Today, we went to the Heald Green Village Festival. Both my wife and I used to live in Heald Green, only moving out when we first got our own house together in Stockport. Both sets of parents still live there, as does my sister. Besides that connection, there’s no real reason for us attending the festival every year, other than tradition. Like carol singing around the tree near the Heald Green library on Christmas Eve, it’s just something we do our best not to miss.
I suppose it’s because we both grew up there that we still feel a strong affinity for the place, and thus we’re happy when we notice that there’s been a good turnout, or when I inevitably win on the tombola. (This time I won a digital camera, keeping up an extraordinary record that’s been going as long as Mel and I can remember. I always win something, and usually something decent.)
We also always buy cakes from one of the several cake stalls, and have burgers for our lunch. They’re much better than your average burger-van food because they’re from the local farm rather than some cheap rubbish that you can almost feel giving you a dodgy tummy with every bite. We always try to watch the kids playing football, and the games are almost always nil-nil. We watched three today, all of which passed without a goal.
There’s always a coconut shy, too, which brought about the highlight of the day as James decided he wanted a go, and amazingly managed to win a coconut on his third throw. We weren’t sure he’d be able to throw it the required distance, but he managed it, striking the stand firmly just below the coconut and bringing it down to the ground.
We went home, clutching a host of useless tat we’d never ordinarily consider spending money on, and some home-made cakes and biscuits to boot. We’ll be back again next year, of course. Why? Tradition.