The Royal Cornwall Show: Three Days of Glory, Gin and Goat Judging

Wadebridge in June is not for the faint-hearted. It’s for the wellies-wearing, pasty-munching, sheep-stroking, tractor-appreciating crowd. Which, incidentally, is far more glamorous than it sounds. The Royal Cornwall Show isn’t just any rural get-together; it’s Cornwall’s loud, proud, and delightfully muddy love letter to farming, food, and all things countryside.

Picture it. A field transformed into a wonderland of livestock parades, vintage tractors, enormous rhubarb displays, and more varieties of cheese than you ever thought possible. Three days of glorious chaos, where prize bulls strut around with more confidence than your average influencer and jam-makers guard their secret recipes like MI6 operatives.

Held every year since 1793 (which makes it older than most of your family traditions), the show knows a thing or two about putting on a spectacle. It kicks off on a Thursday, and by Saturday, your feet hurt, your pockets are stuffed with leaflets from eco-loo manufacturers, and you can name at least four different breeds of goat. Job done.

There’s a reason the Royal bit sticks. It’s not just for show. The Cornish are rightly proud of the annual arrival of very posh visitors in pastel suits and hats with brims wider than satellite dishes. This year’s special guests include Prince William and Sophie, Duchess of Edinburgh, both clearly fans of a good hog roast and a look at the heaviest bull in Britain.

Royal nods aside, the real stars of the show tend to have four legs and an attitude. If you’ve never seen a cow do a proper catwalk turn, prepare to be enlightened. These creatures get shampooed, fluffed, brushed and buffed like they’re about to shoot a L’Oréal advert. The Grand Parade of Livestock is where the true peacocks of the animal kingdom shine. There’s something strangely moving about watching proud farmers lead their beasts in solemn ceremony, clutching red ribbons and hoping Doris the Devonshire Red doesn’t poop at the wrong moment.

If animals aren’t your thing, fear not. There’s food. Endless food. The Food & Farming Pavilion is where you go to meet your cholesterol spike with open arms. You could graze for hours on Cornish Gouda, locally cured salami, trays of fudge, and oddly specific chutneys like fig-and-something-you-can’t-pronounce. Artisan gin? Of course. Mead? Naturally. Beetroot ice cream? Regrettably, yes.

And just when your stomach begs for mercy, you spot the cider tent. It’s a haven of questionable decisions and fermented apple euphoria. Live music wafts through the air—brass bands to make your nan beam and indie folk acts that attract crowds of teens pretending they were born to churn butter.

Outdoors, the Main Ring hosts the kind of entertainment that could easily inspire a Netflix series. Scurry driving is a heart-pounding, high-speed horse-and-cart relay that looks like something from a Victorian fever dream. Inter-hunt relays involve galloping chaos and heroic feats from people wearing far too much tweed. And the showjumping? Think the equine Olympics but with a soundtrack of seagulls and enthusiastic West Country cheering.

You also get the Flower Show, a calm oasis in the madness. Here, dahlias stand proud, bonsai trees pose mysteriously, and people whisper reverently about compost ratios. It’s the sort of place where you meet couples named Barry and Deirdre who’ve been growing peonies since the ’70s and are delighted to explain why your roses keep dying.

Trade stands are a different beast. You’ll find everything from luxury hot tubs to hand-carved walking sticks, solar panels to garden gnomes with disturbingly human expressions. Some vendors could sell you a new roof, a chainsaw and a lifetime supply of beeswax candles all within five minutes of persuasive chat. This is capitalism in its most charmingly pastoral form.

Children lose their minds at the petting zoo. Adults lose theirs at the mechanical log-splitter demos. Somewhere in between, teenagers eye the candy floss with cautious optimism. And everyone ends up in the queue for the artisan doughnut van that runs out by midday. Every. Single. Year.

The countryside village area offers an oddly moving slice of nostalgia. Thatched roof mock-ups, blacksmiths swinging hammers like they’re in a BBC period drama, and WI ladies offering scones with jam and judgement. It’s where you rediscover a deep and slightly embarrassing appreciation for sheepdog demonstrations and maypole dancing.

And of course, the weather. It wouldn’t be a proper Cornish event without several climatic personality changes. Sunburn at ten, torrential downpour at noon, light hail by three. You learn to layer like an onion and move with the grace of someone avoiding cowpats. It’s a skill.

Public transport here takes on a medieval pilgrimage feel. Trains, tractors, and cars packed tighter than a tin of pilchards converge on the showground. Traffic around Wadebridge slows to a crawl, and nobody minds. It’s all part of the ritual. There’s a genuine joy in sharing that awkward, slightly humid shuttle bus with strangers who smell faintly of hay and share your fondness for bacon baps.

You can catch falconry displays, stare up at vintage Spitfires doing low swoops, and watch dogs leap with reckless abandon into pools for sport. One minute you’re talking to a beekeeper who seems suspiciously philosophical about hive politics, and the next you’re being ushered into a pop-up theatre tent to watch amateur dramatics involving a talking badger.

It’s bonkers. Beautifully so. The Royal Cornwall Show does not pretend to be trendy. It is unapologetically wholesome, defiantly local, and so British it hurts. It celebrates a side of life that rarely trends on social media unless a cow does something dramatic. And yet, it continues to draw massive crowds, royal attention, and a level of loyalty that would make football clubs jealous.

By the end of the third day, your boots are battered, your tote bag is filled with brochures you’ll never read, and your phone is full of photos of sheep wearing ribbons. You leave slightly sunburnt, slightly sugared-up, and definitely happier than when you arrived.

Wadebridge, for those three days in June, becomes the epicentre of everything eccentric, agricultural, and oddly emotional about rural Britain. The Royal Cornwall Show doesn’t just showcase farming. It reminds us, rather loudly, that behind every hedge-lined lane and every muddy boot lies a community of people who really care. About the land. About their animals. About their gin.

And if that doesn’t earn it a standing ovation, nothing will.

Next Royal Cornwall Show dates: 5, 6 & 7 JUNE 2025

Buy tickets online: https://royalcornwallshow.ticketsrv.co.uk/tickets/