All to play for at the National Ploughing Championships

Presidential pretenders, people power, and praying prelates permeated the ploughing pageantry in Screggan yesterday.

The early arrivals had few problems as they perambulated to the car parks, along paths, and into pavilions.

Overcast and breezy conditions, followed by sunny periods, put them in pleasant mood but they were also prepared for the precipitation that eventually came.

Predictions that the weather could bring pounding winds and pouring rain, with a need for protective plastic ponchos and wellies, were primarily for today and tomorrow.

The politicos with and without portfolios felt the pulse of the people, paused to press paws and palms, pivoted peppered posers from pen-pushing press people and pontificated on public service programmes, promising these would point the way to prosperity, if not paradise.

Ploughing pilgrims from parishes inside and outside the Pale purchased presents and poked out the best prices, promising to keep as many punts as possible in purse and pocket beside all the ploughing paraphernalia.

They pre-planned their trip to the Premiership of Ploughing, pencilled car park particulars on pieces of paper, and carried back packs that possibly contained disposable pixies and fold-up parasols for any kind of weather.

But the pop-up town with a profile of 1,700 points of sale (trade stands) purred with patronising patter for pampering products and pricey property while also providing a plethora of pertinent advice on how to protect potted plants and where to buy perennials.

People could get guidance on how to sink private wells, seek planning permissions, process problems with farm payments, apply for passports, have their palms read, or just have a quiet pint or a glass of pineapple juice.

Pupils, primary and post-, posed for photographs with popular personalities they recognised from podcasts, platforms, plinths, and plasma screens, sometimes creating panto-like scenes with excited shouts to pals: “Look who’s behind you.”

They could have been TV presenters progressing point to point on Papal-like Ploughmobiles, photographers proceeding to the plots, popular political prognosticators, or performers from the field of play.

Perceptive farmers peered at powerful machines programmed to push profits, productivity and prospects, pottered around ploughs, pumps, pipes, and pulleys, noted Powerpoint presentations, or perused prospective punt saving packages.

Men and women pegged their ploughing plots on the headlands as they prepared to perform with passion, pride, and patient precision. There were pens of pedigree livestock, paddocks to launch new products, and polite gardaí to pinpoint the way, like pioneering guides of the past.

The press centre, where many of the 800-plus accredited media personnel passed in and out all day, was equipped with phones, printers, and plug points, and staffed by courteous press officers.

Elsewhere, public-private partnership projects were promoted, ‘posteritis’ was rampant, and the palates of the peckish were teased in 40 catering pavilions. Food ranged from pancakes and porridge to pasta, pizza, and pastries.

Carrie Acheson, the long-serving voice of the ploughing, was on the public address having viewed some of “the polished stands”.

“The ploughing,” she said, “is the place to be.”