For me, the agriculture pavilion is an oasis away from the crowds and chaos of the Royal Show. Away from the masses jostling for position in queues for carnival rides and cheese-on-a-stick. Away from showbag alley, a place of social distancing ignorance filled with a ravenous sea of Veruca Salts screaming at apathetic parents.
“But daddy – I want it! I want it NOW!”
Here there were no showbags filled confectionaries and unnecessaries. Here the children carried buckets of shit.
A community
It was the afternoon before competition day. The bustle of arrival and set-up had passed, and it was now time for calmness and rest. Adjusted to their new environment and routine, the cows were resting peacefully on their manicured beds of straw and wood shavings, quietly munching away at mounds of ad-lib fodder. Work crews sat back in their folding chairs, cheerfully debating the latest international bloodlines, sale prices and judging results.
I made my way along the isles. A girl lay asleep in the stalls, nestled against the shoulder of her resting cow. The cow turned her head to cradle the girl who lay undisturbed as the droopy ears of the Brown Swiss flapped at a pesky fly.
Returning from the wash bay, a young handler weaved his gentle beast through a maze of prams, partitions and ignorant onlookers. I stepped aside to make way as he led his cow back to her stall. The acrid air was broken by the refreshing smell of shampoo and coat conditioner. Still damp from the wash, the elegant black and white Holstein strolled calmly behind her master.
“Stop!”
A neighbouring exhibitor called out, leaping to his feet and racing to the back end of the cow.
The handler stopped abruptly, calling to his teammates for help. I dropped my notes and went to his aid, grabbing the cow’s tail and lifting it clear as a filthy bucket was thrust in position.
A thick stream of shit spewed from the cow’s rear end, filling the bucket with a greenish-brown sludge.
A team quickly gathered, fists filled with paper towel, expertly wiping away any minute fleck of splashback.
The handler smiled gratefully. “Cheers buddy. Thanks for that.”
“No worries,” I replied cheerfully, secretly relishing the opportunity for some active involvement.
As he moved off, I looked down at the splattering of green on my freshly pressed moleskins. This is what I love about rural life. Whether it be the opposing exhibitor rushing to the aid of his competitor, or the wannabe journalist spoiling his professional attire – we’re a community, where everyone leaps to a neighbour’s aid without a second thought.
Showtime
Monday morning – game on. The calmness of Sunday afternoon has been replaced by the hum of activity, hair clippers, blow driers and spray cans. I watch as every strand of hair is meticulously trimmed and styled with a level of skill that would challenge even the best metropolitan salon. Toes are trimmed, painted, and polished. Coats and features adorned with make-up, oils, and shines. To the general public, this is nothing more than aesthetics and vanity. But for the cattle fitter, it is strategic art, using textures and tones, shadows and outlines to create an illusion of optics.
Techniques to draw the eye, exaggerating structural ideals while detracting from structural flaws.
Hard working crews moved in and out among the stalls, tossing handfuls of hay and silage to the already bloated exhibits.
“Gotta keep them eating” I was always instructed. “Keep it fresh. Keep them interested. You gotta keep them eating to get that fill on them.”
I made my way to the stall of the young the handler I helped the previous afternoon. Strongbark Holsteins. Managed by Holstein Master Breeder Jim Strong and his family, the Strongbark team is synonymous with Sydney Royal success, claiming more Championship titles than any other Holstein exhibitor over the last 30 years. But it was the end of an era. Following decades of success, this year the Strongbark Holstein team would parade for the final time.
Jim’s team was primed and ready – including the ‘favourite’ Strongbark Doorman Voltage. She stood proud in her stall, contently chewing her cud, oblivious to the frantic commotion around her. Her udder was filled to perfection. The soft pink skin of her mammary was filled tight with milk, amplifying the intricate network of veins and blood vessels. Enough to fill every fold of skin and exaggerate every curve, but without unbalancing the vessel, straining the attachments, or swelling the delicate glands.
“Who is she?” I asked the handler. I already knew who she was, but when talking to farmers it is best to break the ice by asking about their animals, and not generic small talk about the weather.
“Doorman Voltage.”
“You’ve got her in great form,” I said honestly.
“She does it all herself,” he smiled, uncomfortable with the praise. “She knows what it’s about. She’s the professional here.”
“I’m Jon by the way,” I said reaching out and shaking his hand firmly.
“Ben,” he replied.
“She’s gonna be hard to beat. Good luck.” I said, throwing him another cheeky complement before heading for a position on the ring.
“Cheers,” he said with an embarrassed smile.
It’s funny – throw a politician a complement, and they run with it gloating. Throw a farmer a complement and they duck for cover.
The next generation
Judging was underway and I had found the perfect spot on a corner of the ring where the late morning sun would hit the exhibit at just the right angle for a great photo.The juvenile classes were strong in both entry numbers and quality. For all the doubters claiming ‘there’s no young people in agriculture’ here was a glimpse at the future. The next generation of young agricultural workers, proud, passionate, and professional. They expertly manoeuvred their exhibits around the ring, strategically controlling the length of each stride, the pacing, the height of head carriage and the length of stretch – every step carefully measured according to the structural strengths of the exhibit. Excited ‘stage moms’ signalled frantically from outside the ring.
“Drop that leg. Stretch that neck. Straighten that top.”
The judge, Mr Matt Templeton, is esteemed in his field, having judged at Royal Shows across Australia and overseas as well as officiating at Australia’s premier dairy event, International Dairy Week. He manages his time efficiently, assessing the large classes carefully, while holding to the strict schedule. His role was to evaluate and arrange the exhibits against the ‘true type’ model. A model based on decades of research combining scientific, observational, and anecdotal data to produce an industry standardised structure of the ‘ideal’ dairy cow. Every physical feature examined and judged according to its influence on productivity, functionality, durability, and longevity.
It also helps if the cow ‘looks pretty’.
Although working to a standardised guideline, the judge’s opinion is still influenced by personal preference. Luckily for me Matt’s ‘preferences’ matched mine, so I discretely set about taking extra photos of the favourites to ensure I had at least a couple of good shots of the winners.
Matt’s final choice was no surprise, with Jim’s senior yearling Strongbark Royal Lustre taking the crown. Matt described her as a ‘no holes’ heifer and an easy choice for his Junior Champion. “For me, this heifer has the most dairy quality” he said. “She has great angle to her – angle to her shoulder and angle to her rib. She also has great depth to her rear rib, depth to her flank and a great set of legs.”
At the conclusion of the Junior Championship the announcers called the rings closed for lunch. I left the safety of the agricultural pavilion and bravely made my way towards the chaos of the food precinct. Immersed in a throng of mullets, muffin tops and camel toes, I was quickly reminded that this was no country fair. I wasn’t even in Melbourne – I was in Sydney.
Instead of stalls boasting gourmet burgers, wood fired pizzas, or a buffet of fresh Asian cuisine my options were either battered, fried or ‘defrosted for my convenience’, and always on a stick. My appetite gone, I searched in vain for any signs of a decent coffee. Don’t get me wrong – I’m no coffee snob. At this point I’d sell my soul for a hot International Roast. Bewildered by cultural shock, I resign myself to a bottle of water and find a quiet place to assess my notes and flick through my photos before the all-important in-milk classes.
The business end
The show had a different atmosphere this year. There was a buzz – a building sense of anticipation as one of Sydney’s greatest showmen made his final appearance. Knowing it was to be his last outing Jim had told me “he’d give this one a go.” And he didn’t disappoint.His Strongbark team had already taken the Junior Championship title. Now, as the milking two-year-olds entered the ring it was again clear, Strongbark were the ones to beat.
Ben paraded his senior two-year-old around the ring effortlessly. Sure, Voltage has the training and experience. Yes, she is professionally fitted and has a talented handler on the halter – but she also has ‘presence’. The balance of her frame from nose to tail, the openness of her rib cage and cleanness of her bone structure cast a perfect silhouette against the afternoon sun. She had a topline that could stabilise a spirit level, and the angle of her hips and positioning of her thurls ensured each hoofprint followed the next in perfect unison as though she was walking on rails.
And then there was her udder. Wow!
Without removing my eye from my camera lens, I jumped off my seat and knelt on the grass to ensure the best angle for the all-important gratuitous boob shot.
This is the business end of the cow. Voltage’s udder was ‘textbook’ – productive, functional, and built to last. It was as though her fore udder attachments were welded to the floor of her abdomen, while the exceptional height and width of her rear udder provided additional capacity without increasing the depth. The medial suspensory ligament carved a deep wedge through the vessel, ensuring the load was carried safely and well balanced, positioning the teats in the ideal set to funnel every last drop during milking.
As a judge, you don’t want to give too much away. You want to keep the crowd on the edge of their seats, trying to anticipate your next move. But despite his effort to remain professional, Matt failed to maintain a poker face. Once Voltage entered the ring – it was clear he’d found his Champion.
“I have been fortunate enough to travel the world to judge and show cows – and her udder system is right up there”
“It fits her frame beautifully – when she walks it doesn’t move. It has tremendous height and width with great capacity and balance, and her fore udder blends through the body wall perfectly.”
“She’s long and lean through the neck and brisket, with a beautiful angle to her shoulder” he continued. “She’s stronger through her loin, wider through her rump and handles her legs better than my Reserve.”
Relaxing his grip on the halter, Ben gave Voltage a grateful slap on her shoulder before lovingly wrapping his arm around the neck of his champion. His face beamed with pride, though the relief in his expression was obvious. As a showman you are always told to never enter the ring with any expectations – “it’s up to the judge and his opinion on the day.” Afterall – if the judge got it right every time we’d have nothing to bitch about on the car ride home.
But for Ben, today, there was expectation. After decades of domination, he was the last generation of the Strong family to exhibit at the Royal and he wanted to leave a lasting impression.
A Strong finish
Media crews circled Ben and his champion. Cameras clicking away as the officials and sponsors moved into position for their ‘moment’ in the spotlight. Ben stood stiffly, unsettled by the sudden attention. Meanwhile Voltage stood relaxed, head lowered and resting on three legs in arrogant disdain. But the photographers didn’t care about her – as long as the handler was smiling, and the sponsor banners were positioned correctly in the background.I wasn’t interested in the suits and self-importances. I was here for the cow. So, I decided to wait, using the opportunity to scribble down more notes for my story. Jim made his way over to the media pack to rescue his son, allowing Ben and Voltage to escape the scrum.
Recognising me from the previous day, Ben caught my eye and smiled.
“Told you she’d be hard to beat,” I said as I shook his hand in congratulations.
“Yeah – you never know but” he laughed back.
Clearly relieved to be talking to someone who shared his passion Ben relaxed, not hesitating or overthinking his answers – just happy to have a chat. It wasn’t long before the media scrum had what they needed from Jim, and seeing us talking, he came over to join in the conversation. Jim’s excitement and passion for the industry was infectious as he shared stories of days competing at Sydney.
“We’ve had a lot of fun showing here over the years” Jim told me. “Sydney has always been a prestigious show. Our industry needs to recognize how good our Australian cows are, and events like this are a great avenue to promote local genetics.”
But Jim was tired about talking about himself, and the topic soon shifted to his prize-winning cows. One of Jim’s greatest thrills as a breeder has been watching his animals do well for their new owners – like the winning junior 2-year-old entry of Jade Whatman, Strongbark Byway Candy.
“The Whatman girls have been a great help to me over the years” Jim said. “When Jade walked out of the ring, seeing the grin on her face winning that class – nothing beats it!”
Speaking now like a sports fan rattling off the statistics of his favourite player, Jim began detailing Voltage’s past successes. She was a descendant of Jim’s two-time Sydney Royal Champion, Strongbark Linjet Victory, who he sold to a fellow Master Breeder, Murray Sowter. Impressed by her success at the Murribrook herd, Jim had spent $14,000 at one of Murray’s sales to buy back into the bloodline, purchasing Victory’s granddaughter, and Voltage’s dam, Murribrook Atwood Valentine.
“Murray’s a great cow man, and he’s done so well with that bloodline,” he said proudly. Like a gloating parent, he detailed the history of the bloodline, that could be traced to the very beginning of the Holstein breed in Australia. I could have listened to Jim for hours, absorbing decades of history and wisdom – but I had my notes and quotes, and it was time to let them get back to their stalls. But not before a photo.
The two men stood proudly with their champion.
A champion farmer, his son, and his cow against the backdrop of Australia’s largest metropolitan centre.
The afternoon heat was taking its toll on Voltage, and despite my attempts to spark her interest she remained dowie eyed with her ears dropped.
“Ooh ooh ohh. Aah aah aah!”
The breeder of the Reserve Champion cow appeared behind me, waving his arms, and making monkey noises to try and gain Voltage’s attention. He could have been off in the stalls resting or chatting with his mates. He could have been sour about placing second. But no – here he was, making a total dick of himself in front of a crowd of frowning onlookers – simply to help a fellow exhibitor get a nice photo.
Voltage responded. Her head lifted and her ears flicked forward – her eyes bright and alert. Click. The money shot. Thanking them for their time I congratulated the Strong family again and let them get back to work.
I packed up my camera and my notes, took one last deep breath, and left my oasis.
An angry mother pushed her way passed me at the exit. One arm loaded with show bags, the other dragging a whining child. Clasping his nose with his free hand the wretched sprog glared at the show kids in disgust as they busily went about their chores and tended to their animal’s every needs.
“But mum I don’t want to look at the animals!” he wailed, pulling against his mother’s firm grip. Frustrated and exhausted, she let go. The boy fell to the ground, a fresh warm pat cushioning his fall.
##ENDS##