As odd as it sounds, I haven’t managed to visit Newmarket until now (about 20 minutes by the Ipswich train; that was another discovery that Newmarket is, in fact, located in “proper” East Anglia and not in Cambs; also the accent there is quite heavy and different from generic Fen): that’s why when I noticed an ad on my socials about the Newmarket Christmas Fair, it was clear that we should go.
Boy, did I love the whole thing! We took an earlier train and arrived to Newmarket Station at 1 p.m. The weather was splendid (another pleasant surprise as it had been ghastly the entire previous week), and we thoroughly enjoyed our walk to the venue.
The main thing one needs to remember is that Newmarket is a renowned city of horse racing: that’s why every sign on your path would feature a horse—galloping, standing in full glory etc. The fields around the roads are vast and established for training horses in one way or another (forgive me, please, for not knowing the specific lingo for that sort of thing). The smell of horse manure also unquestionably indicates their close proximity.
The fair was glorious. The whole space was permeated by the mulled wine scent and the rest of them Christmas spices that immediately reminded of the pudding, mince pies etc. It was also, to my surprise, very posh: I don’t remember seeing so many Barbour jackets, tweeds of different sorts and hearing subtle whispers “Penelope, come here and take a look at this lovely dolly” etc. in one place: the public was very friendly, somewhat quiet and a bit neurotic as always goes with middle class Brits gathered in one place.
And also the stalls—linen napkins with East Anglian birds, tea towels with fighting hares, quilted covers for your Aga, Scottish cashmere, handmade table cloths, saddle bags of Argentinian leather, sponge cakes and you name it. At some point we felt like second-rate characters from Wodehouse or Stella Gibbons: it was funny and simultaneously wholesome.
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