For the 2026 iteration of the Jungle Speed Shear, a curtainside trailer has been drawn up beside the clubhouse of Harome cricket field. It is an hour before the first round of competitive sheep shearing, and already groups of princely young men are milling about on the brown turf outside, gruffly shaking hands and sipping lager. Most are ruddy and well-built, and nearly all wear tight jeans, Schöffels and boat shoes or farm boots. Their outfits announce them as young farmers, and possible members of one of the five Young Farmers clubs in the district of Ryedale, which organises educational and social events all year round. The Jungle Shear is not officially affiliated, but always gets a large turnout from members. The scene at the field is still sparse, and the teenage girl up on stage performing a noncommittal cover of Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros’ Home is politely ignored.
It is only the second year the competition has been held here, having moved from the Rose and Crown (known as the Jungle) in Nawton last summer. ‘It outgrew the Jungle,’ according to Romilly, a member of Kirbymoorside’s Young Farmers Club. The change in location is seen as an unfortunate but necessary development. ‘A lot of people are more hesitant to go because of the new location,’ says Ella, another member. The murky buzz of the Jungle, which is about as close to a rough pub as you get in Ryedale, is sorely missed: ‘it was the whole atmosphere, you stuck to the floor, you were crammed in.’ The Jungle Shear, however, remains a mainstay of the calendar, a summons to every young person in the area to gather and undertake some serious, effortful boozing.
The competition approaches and the crowd swells with families as well as older heads who are there, according to Ella, for ‘the love of the game’. The rules and regulations are eventually recited by a tall angular man named Andrew in a lurid blue fleece. His voice is remarkable, an Ineson-grade foghorn of gravel and rasp. ‘Wool left on and an accumulation of small cuts will be DQ’d. The judges’ decision will be final.’ Most people aren’t paying attention, but watching the preamble beside me is a bemused man and his bored child. His Adidas originals, cargo shorts and straw Trilby mark him out as a Southern emigre and probable nice bloke. Elder millennials of this ilk are a noticeable minority among the attendees, drawn to the curtainside by the promise of a bonafidecultural happening, an unvarnished and apparently unregulated evening of rural weirdness.
The competitors for the Intermediate contest strip down to their red and black Jungle Shear singlets and slip into their moccasins. These are the less experienced but still highly skilled contenders. The very best will compete in the Open event which comes later. A DJ crouches in a corner of the stage, scowling past the crowd or presenting his hunched back, unfurling pop country standards, and pulling on his vape. Young children wearing Ralph Lauren rugby shirts and mullets roar around happily, while the elite shearers who will compete in the Open contest are to the left of the stage, draped over upturned pallets. Their red-and-black polo shirts and quiet aura lend them the look of darts players. They are drinking too, but will be careful not to risk the livestock, nor their chances of glory, by overdoing it. Still, the combination of freely flowing ale, unruly animalsand electrified metal blades has caused problems in the past. A few years ago, I heard a father say he wasn't worried about the cut a shearing blade had just opened in his son's hand. The boy had been competing when the blade sliced through the fleshy part of his palm. ‘It’s all just meat there,’ his father shrugged.
