Plough sound revives a wealth of memories

As the nation’s ploughmen and women begin to enjoy themselves at the annual hosting of the clan on 700 acres of green (and easily ploughed!) land outside Portlaoise, I would like to speak today in my normal learned and factual way on the subject of milk but first I recall from somewhere the yarn about a canny Cavan farmer of the 1940s whose rocky acres would challenge any ploughing competitor.

You see, he worked very hard to raise a family of six daughters and three sons and deployed every resource available to him. He had his own big horse and plough for the tilling and planting and all that heavy farmwork of that era. He also kept the only big black bull in the parish and in this way earned either a few extra bob or benefits in kind from neighbours whose cows and heifers needed to urgently make what was then chastely called a trip to the Bachelor.

No AI men at all back then in that different Ireland. And that for sure is the pure truth again. But what happened was that a shocking disaster struck him one morning on the eve of the ploughing season. He went out to the back field behind the house to begin the ploughing and dammit if he did not discover his grand old horse stretched out stone dead just inside the wooden gate. Worse still as he viewed the fallen one the morning sun was glittering on the brand new horseshoes on which he had spent no less than 15 hard-earned shillings the previous week and now was not going to get any return at all.