Stroud Is All Over the Place: Farmers' Fest in Lambsborn

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

Farmers' Fest in Lambsborn

Hq for garden gnomes

Potato Schnaps

All hand made

Hey, buddy, you're eatin' pork, right?

(After this riveting narrative, be sure to scroll down for more exquisite, mouth watering photos!)

From now through October is prime fest-time in Germany. Everybody knows about Munich’s Oktoberfest, which actually occurs in September, but that’s only one of the headliners. Out in the country, where the real folks live, you can drive yourself crazy deciding which fest NOT to go to. Wine fests. Bier fests. Walking fests. Pumpkin fests. Music fests. Harvest fests. Seems like every little town and village has something the citizens want to scream to the world about. For Lambsborn, the pride is in their farmers. The good folks of this rural village know how to show it, complete with a yearly festival to celebrate the fecund fields and the hard work of those who till them, meaning beer, wine and other stuff.

German festivals, at least in the small towns, are joyous affairs. Friendly crowds. Lots of smiles. Live music. Vendors flock, bearing everything from ice cream to antiques, top hats to garden supplies. You’d think in such a slightly populated area of rolling hills and open pastures, you’d begin to see the same vendors at each little fest that pops up. Not so. Never know what you’ll find, or who’ll be selling what. Mirabella plums are in season and at the Lambsborn Farmers’ Fest we found some delightful Mirabella liquor, sold by a guy in a top hat, turning the handle on a street organ. Here’s a question to ponder over a six-pack, if the man who plays the organ is called an organ grinder, why isn’t the big music box with a crank called a grinder organ?

Besides the wooden spoon sellers, knife sellers, hat sellers, and soft ice cream stands, there was a big field featuring industrial farm machinery, and long open barns where you could pet the cows, goats, and pigs. Odors de jour.

I think I’m ready to market a line of men’s care products called ‘Excusables.’ When a husband gets home late, or disappears for a Saturday of fishing, or watching sports at a buddy’s house, he only needs to spray on Pig ‘n Trough, Essence of Goat, or Motor Grease-Me. When he gets the frosty stare from she-who-must-be-obeyed, he can claim, I had to help Elmer squeeze goat udders, or Whizzey change the oil. Perfect excuses, with scents to seal the deal. How ‘bout the flat tire excuse? Try, It Was The Asphalt.

By the time we’d trod through the vendors and the odiferous barn, I began to wonder where all the people were. I mean, yes, there was a light crowd, but this was supposed to be a once-a-year fest!

Then I got to the beer barn and the spreading cobblestone square, with tents and spigots, and cute little beer maids all in a row. My worries lofted away on the cow-scented breeze. Beer. Check. Wurst. Check. Hellovafest!