The radio announcement that admission to the royal opening of the annual Royal Agricultural Winter Fair would be free on Friday, November 6, has me up and dressed in Harris tweeds, Indian silks and paisley wool and flying down to the Ex’s Ricoh Coliseum at 8:30 am.
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The roads are not lined with cheering crowds or decked out in Union Jacks. In fact, there’s no hint of fanfare for the man who would be king if his hardworking mother ever puts her feet up.
The fair’s official program is packed with sheep-shearing, goat-milking, cattle-showing-off, celebrity chefs and authors, etc. A notice on a door directs jelly and jam judges. But I finally have to ask, like a ripped-off songwriter, “Where the heck’s the ‘royalties’?”
Inside the arena, young ladies are leading their immaculately groomed ponies over a series of modest jumps. Still no sign of a royal frenzy.
A farmer sits in front of me wearing a baseball cap. Farmers often look older than their years and as though they have a lot on their minds. No doubt they do.
By 9:25 the arena’s filling up. Potted mums of common yellow are being trotted out. Old trade show pros are staple-gunning astroturf of a shade I’d call dirty blue onto the risers. A darker blue backdrop curtain is going up on a rod on the stage.
The Canadian Cowgirls precision riding team gallops into the ring. Native drums pound over the speakers as the Girls perform their impressive musical ride, while the announcer talks about how they entertained the troops and families. He asks us to think about Canadian soldiers “putting on their flak jackets to keep us safe.” There’s a mention of “homeland security”!
The Cowgirls ride to Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy, about the man who went to blow for his Uncle Sam. I Am Canadian appropriately comes on next.
At 10:18, while the list of livestock in attendance is being read out, an open carriage enters the arena and Charles and Camilla circle, waving. I wave back. They look tired. Someone could have flipped her hair up from inside the collar of her blue coat. No jewellery, nothing sparkly.
I am actually shocked by the rumpliness of Charles’s grey double-breasted suit. You’d think the Windsors would employ the best tailors in the world to create outfits that can be slept in without looking it. Whatever happened to ermine robes? How about a crown? Country music royalty never give up their flashy costumes.
“Nothing could give me greater pleasure than to declare the 87th Royal Fair officially open,” says Charles. I was hoping for an eco speech. But that’s it. He and Camilla are gone, each in a different direction, security men rushing alongside.
Hours later, my friend Duncan, in total tartans, finds me and says he has lots of shots of Camilla trying jam, etc. My Super 8 camera was gently twisted from my arm the time I filmed Queen Elizabeth eating lunch, back in the day.
I have tonnes of notes and souvenirs of my nine-hour tour. The prize- winning vegetables alone are worth the trip. I walk miles on a bad ankle, but the Royal is invigorating. And enthralling. I talk calcium carbonate and its use by ancient civilizations with a mineral man from Spanish River and learn how used restaurant grease plus manure make energy.
There are stunning Ontario woolens, delicious samples – hemp oil and the cheese shortbreads keep me going. Everything is top-notch – well, okay, except for the frightening McDonald’s precut apple slices in a bag that even Duncan, whose favourite price is free, declines.
While the mayor of Toronto is off in Guadalajara to bring home the burden of the Pan Am Games (a coup circa 1964), Prince Charles is opening the most exciting show in town. Perhaps he’s happy here, chatting about cheese with Ruth Klassen of Monforte cheese.
Canada has suffered under the cynical rule of politicians brokering bad deals with long-term consequences. Could royalty be any worse? Why not go all the way? Charles could convince clever Mumsy to replace that Harper creature with Michaëlle Jean. Then the prince can make regular visits to cut ribbons and muck about in the cheesery in that old grey suit.
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