The Church Fête and the Tombola

The scent of damp grass, mingled with frying onions from the burger stand and the faint sweetness of homemade cakes, still takes me back. You’d step onto the village green, or perhaps the vicarage lawn, and a wave of sound would wash over you: children’s excited shouts, the distant thwack of a coconut shy, and the murmur of a hundred conversations. It was always a sunny day, wasn't it? Or at least, that’s how memory paints it.

But for me, and I suspect for many of you, the true magnet was the tombola. It wasn't the biggest stall, nor the loudest, but it held a quiet, shimmering promise. A trestle table, often draped with a faded floral cloth, piled high with an astonishing array of prizes. Bottles of sherry, tins of biscuits, a slightly chipped porcelain cat, a box of fancy soaps. Each item, no matter how humble, felt like a treasure waiting to be claimed. A woman, usually with kind eyes and a sensible cardigan, would sit behind the table, a drum or a basket of rolled-up tickets before her. You’d hand over your shilling, or later, your fifty pence, and she’d let you plunge your hand into the drum. The rustle of paper tickets, the anticipation as you unfurled your chosen one. Would it be a winner?

That moment, the slow unrolling of the ticket, was pure magic. A number, perhaps a star, or a simple 'W' for win. Even if it was just a small bottle of lemonade, the victory felt immense. The thrill wasn't in the prize itself, but in the chance, the shared hope with everyone else around the table. It was a simple gamble, innocent and communal, a thrill that didn't need flashing lights or loud music. The year was perhaps 1978, and I remember winning a brightly coloured plastic skipping rope. I skipped all the way home, convinced it was the best prize in the whole fête.

These fêtes, and their beloved tombolas, seem to have faded from our summers. Perhaps our lives became too busy, or the allure of mass-produced goods overshadowed the charm of a donated prize. Maybe the small, local charities found other ways to raise funds, less reliant on the weather and volunteer hours. The world changed, as it always does, and those quiet, sun-drenched afternoons gave way to other things. But the memory lingers.

It wasn't just about the money raised, or even the prizes won. It was about community, about seeing your neighbours, about the shared joy of a simple afternoon. It was about that fleeting, thrilling moment when you unrolled a ticket, hoping for a win, knowing that even if you didn't, you were still part of something good. Those church fêtes, with their gentle chaos and the quiet promise of the tombola, taught us the value of small joys and the warmth of belonging. They are a treasure we carry still.