VE Day Themed Charing Fête in Kent - 10th May 2025

An afternoon at Charing Village Fête – cameras loaded, sun shining, swing tunes in the air.

There’s something very reassuring about a proper English fête. You can feel it the moment you arrive, the bunting gently flapping in the breeze, the smell of warm scones and sunscreen, and the unmistakable sound of a brass section warming up behind the cake stall. This time, it was Charing’s turn to roll out the tea urns and crank up the charm, and I wasn’t about to miss it.

Armed with my RB67 and trusty Sony, I set out to capture the day. I decided to burn through the film first — a roll of 10 frames, so every shot had to count. First stop: vintage cars gleaming in the sun like polished boiled sweets. Then a wander over to the tea and fancies stall, where the local ladies were in full force, guarding sponge cakes like crown jewels.

With the film full (and probably priceless), I swapped to digital just as the first band began to tune up. But while others were throwing beanbags or battling the tombola, I was observing. That’s when I spotted a couple casually strolling in, each holding a suspiciously clinking bag. A closer look revealed a stash of tinnies and ice, destined for a shady corner behind the beer tent. A quiet protest, perhaps, at "How much a pint?". Crafty? Yes. British? Very.

With the sun blazing and the mood dialled firmly to “cheerful,” I snapped away at sun-kissed faces, children spinning hula hoops, and locals nursing cups of tea beside Union Jack tablecloths. The band, Miss Holiday and the Swingtones, soon launched into full swing, belting out toe-tapping tunes that echoed across the green. Pure entertainment, and frankly, they deserved their own fan club.

As the afternoon unfolded, I spotted three women in full 1940s dress, floral prints, victory rolls, and red lipstick sharp enough to cut glass. I followed (photographically, not suspiciously), and discovered they were The Satin Dollz, the second act of the day. When they finally took the stage, they brought the house — or rather the village green — down. Their harmonies were pitch-perfect, their voices rich, and for a moment, it felt like we’d time-travelled back to 1943.

The raffle was drawn (no, I didn’t win the hamper), prizes donated by local businesses were handed out, and slowly the shadows lengthened on a perfect Kentish afternoon.

And that, really, is the magic of a village fête: sunshine, a touch of swing, a swirl of nostalgia, and just a hint of smuggled lager.

If you fancy fuelling the next outing (or just love Victoria sponge), you can Buy Me a Coffee. I promise not to spend it all on raffle tickets.