Nicky Rennie: What I learned at Central Districts Field Days

The Central Districts Field Days in Feilding. Photo / NZME

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To add to the list of new things I’ve never done, this week I helped exhibit at the Central Districts Field Days in Feilding.

I didn’t really have any pre-conceived ideas of what it would be like, suffice to say there was a certain amount of concern that they would smell townie on me a mile off.

I’ve never lived on a farm. The closest I ever got was a house on the outskirts of Palmerston North when I flatted there with two other young people. It took a while to get used to the complete darkness at night and the silence of all but the neighbouring sheep.

It was a lovely old villa and my room had a fireplace in it. One night a possum came down the chimney and ran all over me and up the curtains. After an hour or so of possum-wrestling, I shut it in the dining room, and on the way out to work at 5am, I woke my male flatmate to say he could deal with it. So much for “woman hear me roar”.

It was a horrifying experience, that probably cemented the fact that I am too much of a wuss to be cut out for farming. I was the assistant manager and matron of Otago Boys’ boarding hostel for seven years and 98 per cent of those boys and their families were from farms.

The whole boarding house shut down for duck shooting season or field days, but my eyes were opened to just how incredibly hard they worked and how dedicated they were to their children.

They thought nothing of driving two hours to watch a rugby game and if the rowers needed to fundraise, they would kill a beast, cut it up, and sell it to get the squad to Maadi Cup. At one stage I had visions of being a farmer’s wife. I thought it would be great to cook and feed workers all day.

When I was walking around the field days with my colleague who is a farmer’s wife, she said “what do you actually think that actually entails?” When I responded and mentioned cooking, she laughed her head off. I’ve deduced there is no such thing as a farmer’s wife.

There are just farmers. A lot of these women work the land alongside their husbands and have practical skill sets that would put Bear Grylls to shame. Walking around Manfield looking at the diggers, tractors, massive earth-moving equipment, and all sorts of paraphernalia, my colleague knew what it was all for and how to use it, I headed over to the leather handbags.

I know how to use one of those. I’ve come to the conclusion that for me there will be no Prince Farming, because he would spot an imposter a mile off.

The respect I have for our rural communities is real. First, there was the Shemozzle to convince me and now the Field Days. Thanks for all you do to contribute to Kiwi culture and our communities, I might just buy some moleskins and RM Williams boots in your honour.