First stop was a visit to Grandad at the tractor display. Grandad dished out a handful of jellybeans and we pushed on.
The jellybeans kicked in as we went past the hot dog stand. I've heard that yellow is a particularly virulent form of food colouring when it comes to kids so I'm blaming the yellow jellybeans.
Both boys were suddenly hungry. It was an hour past breakfast, they were full of jellybeans - lots of jelly beans - so I said, using a positive statement, because I was on my best behaviour as well, "yes, we can have a hot dog later, for lunch".
The 3-year-old sat down on the spot.
"You can't sit there," I told him, "someone will trip over you."
He toppled over and lay face down. I didn't think that was an improvement. His brother had spotted a bouncy castle, so I agreed that's where we would go next, should the trip hazard decide to accompany us. He did, and we made good progress with just a request for ice cream (yes, later), toys (maybe, if you are good), and a stop to look at a stuffed sheep. The reason behind the sheep and its upholstered state escaped me, but the boys liked it.
They liked the bouncy castle as well. A lot. I'd gone off it after 10 minutes but they were still loving it. After 11 minutes I told them we were moving on "in a minute" and after 14 minutes I was demanding they get out and put their shoes on.
I grabbed the eldest as he flew out a bouncy door and thrust his shoes in his hand, but the little one was still in there, and he had no intention of coming out. I tossed up between losing my dignity or my principles. Do I plunge in and grab him? Or resort to bribery?
"If you come out we will get an ice cream."
Out he came and started putting on his shoes. I tried to help. "Me do it" he said. It was taking ages. I tried to help again. "No. Me do it" he insisted. He was making no progress.
I picked up a tiny sneaker and reached for his foot. He screamed, rolled, got up and ran.
I walked after him, he ran faster. I broke into a grandmotherly jog, he started to sprint. He dodged round some hay bales, under a tent guy rope, and gained ground. He looked over his shoulder at me and tripped up. I pounced.
We trailed back past Grandad at the tractor display, the snivelling escapee clamped under one arm. Grandad offered another handful of jellybeans. I told him no.
I had ideas of watching the dog trials. "Look at the clever dogs" I told the boys. "They are boring," replied the 5-year-old.
I tried for show jumping instead. "Will they crash?" asked the 5-year-old.
Sensing animosity from the people around us who were watching the show jumping with bated breath and the utmost concentration, I moved my small people on.
At the toy stand I tried to distract the eldest from an inflatable automatic rifle. He was adamant and I was, quite frankly, wilting. He won, and his brother chose a large, blow-up dolphin.
We pushed on, heading for coffee and hot dogs. But within seconds disaster struck.
The 3-year-old realised he had chosen a large, blow up dolphin. And he didn't want a large, blow up dolphin. He had made a mistake.
He threw the dolphin, he shouted at the dolphin, then he threw himself. I picked up the dolphin and walked on. I walked past the craft stall, past the jams and jellies table and past the fresh fruit-juice stand.
The ladies at jams and jellies looked at me askance. Then they looked at the prone, thrashing and screaming pre-schooler. Then they looked back at me and they smiled. A look of grandmotherly solidarity passed between us.
Lurking behind the helium balloon tent I watched as the tantrum ran its course. Kicking - tick. Wailing - tick. Checking there's an audience - tick. When he'd exhausted his repertoire I strolled back past, stopping to admire some particularly nice cranberry jelly.
A little hand crept up, gently took the big blue inflatable dolphin out of my grasp and off we went, bound for hot dogs, ice cream and a sticky-fingered clamber on some nice, shiny tractors.
