I went to Fieldays this year hoping to reconnect — with the land, the people, maybe even a little bit of wonder.

I left instead with a strange emptiness. Not frustration, not outrage. Just… a muted hollowness, like catching a song you used to love being piped through the PA system of a mall.

I’ll be the first to admit: I’m not a farmer. I’m a city-dweller with a strong interest in rural life — the work, the land, the values. But from the outside looking in, something about this year felt off.

A Shopping Mall in Gumboots

Fieldays has always had a commercial element — we know that. But this year, the balance felt truly off. Crowds thronged the apparel stalls and Fieldays Pantry, arms full of poly-fleece and branded bags. The innovation spaces, environmental science booths, and future-focused panels were sparsely attended — often populated more by staff than actual visitors.

I found myself the sole member of the public at a few rural education talks. The rest of the seats were filled by government department staff, quietly nodding at each other to fill the space. It felt… performative. Like the appearance of public engagement was more important than the reality of it.

I say this not as someone with insider knowledge, but as a curious observer who’d hoped to learn more.

Where Did the Hands-On Go?

Gone too were the spontaneous public demos. The fencing competitions and tractor pulls remained, but there were no animals, very few if any “have a go” hands on demo pits, no tug-of-war with locals. Health and safety may have played a part, but it felt symbolic — a slow retreat from participation to observation.

Fieldays no longer invites us in. It performs rural life as a display, while filtering the public through controlled, commercial channels.

Symbolism Over Substance

I couldn’t help noticing the sheer volume of poly-fleece clothing — a flood of branded, synthetic gear styled to emulate the young salt-of-the-earth aesthetic. It’s a uniform now. The two-tone rugby shorts, hunting-branded hats, and branded fleece jackets serve more as rural cosplay than functional farmwear for many.

From the outside, it seems like rural identity is increasingly being sold back to us — something you can buy your way into, rather than something you live and breathe.

Muted Specials, Muted Sentiment

Even the shopping, the one part of Fieldays that has only grown, felt lacklustre. Prices were high, discounts were shallow, and gone were the end-of-day markdowns that once made Fieldays a thrill for bargain-hunters. I kept my wallet closed — not just out of frugality, but out of resistance to feeding into consumerism that often trickles upward, accelerating the wealth gap.

Maybe that’s just how the event felt to me, someone more cautious now about the things I buy and the systems I buy into.

Who Is This Event For Now?

And here’s the uncomfortable question I found myself wondering — not as a critic, but as an outsider genuinely interested in the rural sector:

Is there still space for people like me to connect meaningfully with this world?

There was precious little information for those considering a career change into the rural sector. Almost nothing for curious city-dwellers looking to understand or contribute. Maybe there are better avenues — or maybe it’s simply not a focus right now.

Maybe It’s Not Just Me

I’ve searched around since — there’s been very little discussion about Fieldays in public forums. Not on Reddit, not in rural Facebook groups. The silence speaks volumes. Perhaps the wider rural community feels similarly disconnected, but hasn’t found the words — or the time — to say so.

What Now?

I still care deeply about the land, the people who work it, and the conversations we’re not having between rural and urban. But for now, I may give Fieldays a miss next year.

Maybe the connection I’m seeking is waiting somewhere smaller. Less polished. More hands-on.
Or maybe, it’s time we all started talking more openly about what events like this are really for — and who they still serve.