By club I mean an outfit that caters for some special interest or other, rather than one of the larger organisations such as the AA. At the last count I think I pay subs to at least five clubs or societies, one of which is our very own Borders Vintage Agricultural Association.

I claim a vague connection with matters rustic, having been brought up in a rural area, worked school holidays on market gardens or farms, and at one time was a country copper.

Don't ask me to plough (I have problems even walking in a straight line!) or operate any of the modern farming leviathans, but I'm sound on things like vague weather forecasting, manure-related humour and coarse adjectives relating to any form of animal reproduction. I find the company of country people much to my liking and my work (hah!) writing about old-time farming and machinery takes me places I would otherwise miss.

Matters of note with the BVAA went up a gear recently when Isabel, our loyal and much-taken-for-granted club secretary had to throw in the towel after many years of running everything with great skill and efficiency. Her departure left us in a big hole and the committee went into a huddle to run matters until a suitable replacement comes along.

The first job was our annual rally at Springwood Park, an event that has grown from a small get-together of like-minded folk to a major event on the summer show calendar.

We divvied up the work and I got to do the rally entries, including the traders and autojumblies, a task I discovered to my horror that was massive for a weak-minded old bloke like me. Thankfully, lots of people came to my rescue with advice or practical help, and last weekend we had more or less pulled it all together and said our final prayers for a day of fine weather. From Friday evening onwards the far-away rally fans arrived in caravans, tents etc. Saturday produced a big crowd at the auction of vintage tackle etc., and those in residence enjoyed a soiree and swallow evening with a ceilidh band on hand to cater for those wishing to skip and frolic on the dance floor.

As proof of my long-held belief that big G has a soft spot for country folk, Sunday dawned fine and stayed that way all day long. Not too hot, a cooling breeze to keep the flies off the ice-cream and burgers, with plenty to see and do in what must surely be one of the finest event settings in Scotland – Springwood Park where the Border Union Agricultural Society are always excellent hosts.

I had been harbouring thoughts of spending my day wandering around the show, greeting people, gassing with mates and making myself mildly ill from over-eating – but it was not to be.

I was part of the workforce and deshed hard work it was too.