The first ‘Farmer’s Dinner’ took place on Saturday 10th February 1912 at the Inn at Whitewell.  The following is an account that appeared one week later on this Clitheroe newspaper.

‘Farmers & Fishers’

By The Idler

   This is about the farmers and fisher’s festival at Whitewell.   And when you speak of Whitewell it is as much of a people as it is of a place.  The stranger travelling that way and keeping a lookout for the collection of cottages and the few houses of the more pretentious kind that usually mark the village, may reach the far end of the sleepy hollow through which the river Hodder winds its way before discovering that he has overshot his mark.  He will probably have taken the church and adjoining hotel as outposts of parochial civilisation. Whereas they are really of its heart and centre, spiritual and material. The rest of Whitewell being dotted along the valley and on the breast and crest of the hills. And you really only come to know Whitewell through its people.  This-like the attainment of most good things is a process of time; and when it is achieved you realise the truth of what is set down of the beginning of the story-that Whitewell has a personal as well as a topographical meaning.  The expansion of towns and the extension of railways has so far left it untouched.  Long may it so remain “a fair and a pleasant land” and for those who love honest, homely folk, and quiet days and simple pleasures, a “goodly heritage” indeed.  At somewhat rare intervals Whitewell is roused out of its slumbrous self, and indulged in a shaking-up of a social character. Such as happened a week ago. Amongst its seasonal visitors are members of the Whitewell Fishing Association. Most of whom. For their sins, are condemned to spend their days in towns, and to trade, or talk, or write for a living, keeping their noses, figuratively speaking, pretty close to the grindstone in order that they may occasionally see something of the beautiful vale of The Hodder.  It was the pleasure of these fishers to entertain certain farmers to dinner “last Saturday as ever was”.  Now, when farmer and fishers foregather you have represented two of the most ancient and respectable industries known in human history. And the two, probably, that will last to the end of time.

When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman?

Certainly not the fisher of the period, for his calling must have been quite arduous as that of the tiller of the soil, and his harvest possibly even more precarious.  But whether agriculture or fishing is the most ancient pursuit was nothing to the purpose of this gathering at the Whitewell Hotel.  What really gave rise to it was a desire on the part to those who fish the Hodder between Burholme and Doeford Bridges to meet the tenants of the Towneley estate though whose land this length of river runs, and to set sign and seal, over a jolly dinner, to articles of friendship and good will.  This feeling, of course as always existed through it had never been expressed in this particular way.  Everybody was invited everybody accepted, and nearly everybody attended; and from the moment of welcoming to the of speeding the guests, everything went well.  Having paid their devoir to the dinner of four courses as good men should to a good meal-the contingent from Blackburn discovering a wonderful appetiser in the nine miles’ walk from Clitheroe-the company toasted their Sovereign Lord the King, who is not only an admirable monarch, but an able fisherman to boot, and the settled down to sing, and jest and story.  There was no formal programme, but Mr Alfred Read, hon. Secretary of the Association, who was the president for the night, kept things going in the right vein, and a merrier party, “within the limit of becoming mirth”, never burned tobacco nor drank the wine of the country. The floodgates of reminiscence were thrown wide, and the history of much farming and much fishing at Whitewell was brought up to date. The toast of “Our Guests” gave the president an opportunity of explaining the why and the wherefore of this gathering, and of expressing the hope that this experimental festivity might be the forerunner of many more. The joint reply of Mr Richard Hitchen (the oldest tenant farmer in the company) and Mr Willian Hazlewood, was in the nature of an assurance that they were very glad to come to dinner number one, and that if it were made an annual event, they would see to it that it did not lack for guests.  And Mr Hazlewood touched on a common sorrow of the farmers and fishers in the year that just closed-the failure to realise their hearts desires in the matter of crops and catches, and bespoke for the coming season a bountiful reward for industrious labour upon the land and water.  And then he proposed the only other toast of the programme, “Jolly Anglers” – with special reference to the Whitewell Fishing Association- saying such nice things that even the consciousness of deserving it all did not prevent the blush of modesty from mantling to the cheek of members.  To these kind sayings responded Mr Lightfoot, and so brought the speechifying to the end.  Of the succeeding songs and stories, it were vain to attempt a description, but they are indelibly fixed upon the memories of all who heard them-the quaint folk songs of Mt Willian Seed, with a snatch of “Down-derry-down” for chorus; the sentimental songs of Mr Willian Hazlewood, leading tenor in the vale; the home-song of Mr Jimmy Cowgill (what a rousing refrain we gave to “The Farmer’s Boy”!) the travel-song of  Mr. John Rowland, and the other songs of other singers. Mr. Seed was apparently as full of sung as the gramophone was full of tunes, and his example nearly moved his neighbour, Mr. Hitchin, and Mr. Bartle Marsden, and Mr. Roger Marsden (“Old Roger”, as he is known to his familiars), and other to break into song.  Instead, Bartle told us about the gaffing of the chub, which reminded Roger of something else, and so the jest and the laugh, and the song and the story went on, Mr. J Boardman firing off some funny tales about men and things that will be remembered in the valley and hillside home for the many a day to come. Mr Noel Parmeter’s wire of good wishes for a pleasant evening was realised in fullest measure, and the farmers and fishers had joined hands in “Auld Lang Syne”, the party broke up, hosts speeding their departing guests with a hearty “Good-night” at the door.  Nest morning the fishers had a tramp by the riverside, through the woods, past Lilyholme and Gelkar to Froth Pot, every stream, and glide, and pool recalling fine sport in days gone by with trout and sea fish, and, of course, inspiring hopes of many more such days to come. The charm of the Hodder captures the fancy of most anglers who are lovers of the beautiful in nature; but it is a coy stream, not to be conquered by the cleverest until he has wooed it with some humility and much earnestness of purpose.  This done, and given a good water and a good day in the right month of the year, and he is as certain of reward as ever a fisherman can be.  The party has been left lingering at Froth Pot pool during this little ecstatic digression.  Breasting the steep pasture, they struck across the road to the hill above, and so Whitewell; and, later back to Blackburn, home, and the duty that gives such a zest to pleasure.