Goose Fair

I still see Goose Fair from the eyes of a small child, where the prizes on the hook-a-duck stall are invisible over the sides, the helter-skelter is the highest place on earth and the larger-than-life cartoon figures painted on the side of the rides leap out at me to become a part of this crazy once a year world.   1

We left Nottingham nearly six years ago now, at this time of year. The huge white and yellow goose statue will be up on the stone plinth on the roundabout outside the fairground marking the annual 'Goose Fair'. Soon the ride owners will start arriving; the collection of caravans growing from a tiny huddle to a sea of white over towards the football-ground end of the park. I used to see them on the roads, huge vans towing not only the caravans but the packed away rides on their trailers, like bizarre, light-up butterflies waiting to be unfurled and experienced.2

Goose Fair is an event if you live in Nottingham- for me it was like Christmas or Bonfire Night. Usually it opens on the first Thursday of October, and goes on until the Sunday.  Every time we passed it in the car or the bus, my brother and I would press our noses to the window, craning to get a look at it, pleading with Dad to tell us when we could go.3

We'd set off as the sky was turning a dull, blue-tinged grey, making black silhouettes from the trees. I would have been wearing my blue coat with cherries on the pockets, and the red mittens that were attached to my sleeves with a piece of elastic (these were quickly discarded; mittens are far too impractical for eating toffee apples). It would be dark by the time we could hear the first dull thumpings of the blaring music, the low humming of the generators, the wails of the dodgem cars and the screams of those on the rides that to my mind were reserved for the very brave.      4

My parents would tell us we could go on three rides each, get one thing to eat and have one go on the hook-a-duck stall, or something like that. These were like three magic wishes, and had to be used wisely.5

I always went on the merry-go-round, and made a point of remembering the name painted up the horse's neck as I clutched the twisted pole with one hand and waved at my parents whenever they span past. I remember feeling so brave when I went on the ghost-trains, never allowing myself to show how terrified I was as the little train shot off into a twisting tunnel, leaving reality behind. 6

The fairground smelt of grease from the burger vans, the sweetness of the toffee apples, the churned muddy ground beneath our feet and the warm smell of my Dad holding my hand and guiding me through the vast expanse of light and colour and excited crowds. We always left the ground at the opposite entrance to where we'd come in, to walk up a hill to the main road and along the ridge it formed, over looking the fairground. 7

I always looked back- that was part of the ritual- to turn and look back over the never-ending expanse of light and colour. I would stand and stare, drinking it in, trying to place all the lights in my mind, which one was the ghost-train I'd been on, which ride went where, and getting lost in it all. Eventually I'd turn and be led, streaming away with the crowd back home to hot chocolate, to the rattling of the huge rice filled balloons we always bought pounding up and down, and the discussion of who chose the best rides. 8

The next week the rides would leave, quicker than they'd arrived. There’d be less and less of them and then quite suddenly, the park would be empty when we drove into town, leaving behind nothing but a mud-scarred litter strewn field. The Goose would be the last to go, and then all we'd be left with was a treasured prize toy, and the memory of those lights winking at us, promising to return the next year.9