One of the major events around these parts is the Tunbridge World Fair (TWF). This is an extraordinary spectacle which I would never expect to attend, never mind enjoy. Why? Because it’s devoted to something about which I know nothing: agriculture.

The TWF involves hundreds of farm animals, their owners, the owners’ relatives and thousands of tourists from miles around. According to Wikipedia, it has been held every year, around the middle of September, for 138 years. It involves rides and food-stalls, competitions and carnival-style attractions, all in the open air, with tents and lights and music. Grace and Peter say the children look forward to it all year round. When someone outside the family circle asked one of the children if they’d ever been to Disney World, Grace answered, “Oh they’ve never heard of THAT — after all, they’ve got something a million times better right here in Vermont!”

Our expedition to the Fair involves two cars, with Grace and all three children in their pick-up truck while Peter, Birk, Bins and I are in our sky-blue hearse. Birk is driving. I am in the front seat. Bins turns to Peter and says, “You know? I’ve been wondering if you’d like a bite of one of these excellent hash cookies. They’re made from my own home-grown hash. All the way from Pondicherry.” He says this as if handing out hash-cookies is something he does every day, even though this is the first I’ve ever heard of their existence. I hear Peter say, “Oh! Really? Hmmm. Well — sure, why not?”

And then I hear myself say, as I turn around in my seat, “Hey, I wouldn’t mind having a bite of one too!” I’ve never been fond of hash. I don’t like getting high. But I am extremely partial to cookies. Any kind of cookies. So I grab the thing and chomp down on it, telling myself it can’t possibly be very strong. Ten minutes later, however, the car grows silent and I realise I was very wrong. I can feel the individual hairs on my scalp vibrating like tuning forks. When I turn around to look at Peter and Bins, I see that they are grinning like a pair of rainbow-coloured lunatics.

Birk is the only sober person in the car but he’s never been to Tunbridge. Peter knows the way but he can barely talk. We miss the exit three times. By the time we get to the Fair I can no longer walk straight because I’m levitating whilst also cackling like a hyena. We go to watch the famous Pig Races, where young porkers trot around a tiny course, wearing racing silks. It’s so hilarious that I fear I’m going to burst apart or wet my pants. Bins is standing very still, pretending to be a tree. Peter is smiling very sweetly, with his eyes crossed.

We see little girls with shining ponytails getting their goats to perform tricks. We see bulls the size of elephants. Pumpkins the size of cars. Winged horses. Unicorns. It is beyond amazing. I am dazzled and breathless by the time we leave. Can’t wait till next year.

Manjula Padmanabhan, author and artist, writes of her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere, US, in this weekly column

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