FROM THE ARCHIVES:Fashion Correspondent Gabrielle Williams explained why she liked the Spring Show at the RDS, once one of the highlights of the year for urban as well as rural dwellers.
A STRONG, persistent wind blows from the east, coming from the direction of Siberia: a sniff at the air and even the most urbane will smell rain.
The cherry blossom, pretty pink and white, scatters to the ground as waxy tulips swivel on long stalks. But I go to the Spring Show each year I am in Dublin, despite climatic provocation. I suppose I go because I like it. There is no reason for going, no farming instincts which need satisfying, no real understanding of it at all.
I do not go with little kiddies. I did once, with two and one wished to spend the day considering the tropical fish which decorated an otherwise boring industrial stand. One does not go to the Spring Show to explain, or, rather, fabricate the life prospects of a fish.
The second kiddie favoured the tent housing the brass band.
And, sitting in the middle of the front row while the band exhausted its repertoire for the third time made me appreciate but one thing: how cold the east wind is as it curls up the edges of the canvas.
No, I leave little kiddies elsewhere since then, though I do realise little kiddies grow up and big kids, who can wander off in pairs and are capable of keeping a rendezvous, can be permitted [to] come long.
I must be a little sentimental about the Show. One remembers all the other times – who one was with and the funny little things that happened. It is a place, like no other, to meet almost forgotten acquaintances. Besides, the Show offers some marvellous things, and I like to see them. I like to be an uncaptive audience. One can come and go. Walk out on a performance, or see it round again. [. . .]
One learns to know the performers by sight and name (human and animal), to tell as soon as one comes into the enclosures, whether they are having a dull day or whether they are hitting it high, or whether the animals are out of sorts.
For instance, one finds oneself becoming terribly upset and engrossed in the problem of Christabel. She is a slim, lovely-looking redhead who is having trouble with her great white Charollais [sic].
He is not on form, is moody and gloomy, and she is exhausted humouring him.
She wanted to show him herself, but foresaw the need of more agility than she herself was capable of. He looks malevolent. A small crowd gather to make comments about him and some young fellow boldly gives a prod with a finger while white bull regards him as he would a fly.
And later one hears that the great white beast was simply acting like the prima donna he turned out to be, and all is forgiven but not forgotten. The atmosphere is made up of little bits of gay charm and minor drama. I will always regard it as a special treat.