After months of hard graft, and quite literally, blood, sweat, and sometimes, something close to tears, it was time to discover if their labour would pay off. I knew how hard Jack worked, and I willed the bidding to reflect that.
I hoped those seated before me wouldn’t notice my hands trembling as I raised the page and began to read . . .
As an occasional contributor to RTÉ’ Radio One’s “CountryWide” programme, I was delighted when they invited me to be a part of its Culture Night special — a live recording in the beautiful Chapel Royal at Dublin Castle.
. . . their banter got me to thinking about how my life now differs from theirs by virtue of being in a relationship with a farmer.
Interestingly enough, I haven’t seen much of Jack in the days since the broadcast . . . He’s “at the silage,” he tells me, but I wonder if this isn’t a pay-back of sorts!
There comes a time in every relationship when the couple’s parents must meet. Having just passed the three year mark, and with me now firmly rooted in Kildare, Jack and I recently decided that for us, that time had come.
I knew that the more I thought about it, the nervier I would get. There was nothing else for it: I bid farewell to my recently manicured hand, and took the plunge.
So, when he asked if I could swing a day off work to attend day three of the world-famous Punchestown Festival, I was, of course (and you’ll forgive me for this. . . .) chomping at the bit.
I was recently delighted to discover that there there are, in fact, some tasks that can be entrusted to those who might not yet know their colostrum from their milk replacer…
Indeed, quality time together these days is an afternoon spent in the sheep shed. Which is where we were last weekend when I learned just how true the saying is, that where there’s livestock, there’s deadstock.
Which is why, it was with disappointment and frustration that I read Jackson’s recent comments that she will “never eat meat ever again,” in part because the idea of slaughtering a lamb for its meat is “so f*****g cruel.”
“How old were you when you started helping out around the farm?” I asked Jack. He couldn’t remember, exactly, though he was quick to recall one instance when, while playing at a friend’s house one summer’s day, he was summoned home to help stack the bales. He must have been 8 or 9, he reckoned.