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 emigré and probable nice bloke. Elder millennials of this ilk are a noticeable minority among the attendees, drawn by the promise of a bonafide cultural 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 animals and 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.
When it starts, the speed shearing is engrossing. After the heats, shearers are matched in head-to-head races on stage, frantically wrestling with their animal and reaching to beat their opponent to stop the clock. The competitor’s success depends on their ability to manoeuvre the sheep with their arms and knees to facilitate long, sweeping strokes (known as the long blows) of the handpiece across the back and flanks. Reggie, a Young Farmers member whose Dad is one of the event organisers, having represented England in shearing competitions in Europe and New Zealand, is keen to disillusion me. ‘It’s not as hard as it looks’, he tells me as we watch a blisteringly fast heat in the Open competition. ‘The key thing is just how fit and strong you have to be.’ A little disheartened by this revelation, I ask about the event’s compère and commentator, a stout raconteur named Roger. ‘He’s very well-known across the country,’ says Reggie. ‘If someone asked you to name a sheep-shearing commentator, people [would] say Roger.’ And Roger is indeed ace, bringing the vibe of the cheerily vicious pub comedian. He welcomes a portly competitor with a hoarse wolf-whistle into the mic, and slower attempts are received with a derisive ‘he’s leaving the skin on anyway’. In a memorable digression, he quotes the medieval thieves’ litany ‘From Hell, Hull, and Halifax deliver us’, when introducing an entrant from near the West Yorkshire town. The two judges, Andrew and a squat man of seemingly infinite poise and insight, flank the shearers to assess their efforts for possible disqualification. He signals his approval with an undemonstraative nod, hands thrust into tight jean pockets. He issues disqualifications with a piratical grin and shake of the head, thumbs down.
The intermediate and open events conclude, with Reggie’s dad sweeping to victory in the latter. Evening turns to night, and the elite shearers shuffle from the limelight. Families start to depart and faces in the crowd become indistinct, blending into a forest of swivelling eyes, pale curls and fleecy outerwear. A contingent of well-watered Young Farmers have joined for the second act. As teams of three take to the stage to face off in a tripartite race of pie-wolfing, pint-sinking, and sheep-shearing (‘it usually just comes down to the pie, really,’ Reggie sagely observes), the atmosphere turns rowdier. Still struck by the level of uniformity of dress among the attendees, I ask Sophie, a Young Farmers doyenne, if it’s all intentional. After branding me a ‘city boy’ for my Harrington jacket, she says that ‘a lad will look for a girl in boots, mucky jeans and a Schöffel, because she’s done her horses and come straight here.’ She recently broke off her engagement to an accountant: ‘I work hard. I don’t want someone who gets up at 8 AM and goes to the office, because they won’t get me.’ Young Farmers want to date Young Farmers, as they share, in Ella’s words ,‘the understanding that nothing will relate to being a farmer.’ Ella and Romilly, as part of the Public Speaking program in their club, had to debate the motion ‘Young Farmers is a marriage bureau’. The cohesion is conscious, deliberate and a point of pride for the community.
A light rain starts to fall. On stage, an enormous boy in a popped collar rugby shirt, sporting a mullet that is mildly Boer in its damp glint, is hawking down a pie. The pint will be dealt with by a child of surely no more than 14, his gilet hanging off him. The loudspeakers are hymning a cold beer on a Friday night, a pair of jeans that fit just right and the radio up. Looking around, they seem like words to live by.
