Denis Lehane: A broken down sheep farmer
Why did Columbus go in search of America? Why did Armstrong head for the moon?
Why did Alcock and Brown fly their Vickers Vimy across the wild Atlantic, only to crash land on a bog in Connemara.
For generations, brave men have been doing very stupid things. And me becoming a sheep farmer was just another example.
Of course, I regret my decision to drift into sheep farming at the back end of 2014, ’twas madness entirely. I should have been placed under arrest and locked up on the spot.
There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t burst into tears, when I look at them grazing, usually in the wrong field.
Don’t be fooled into thinking that there is money in sheep. There isn’t a cent. My only luck was that I bought 20 ewes, and not 200.
My farming life before the arrival of the sheep, as you well know, had been damn near idyllic. Sure, I wrote about it here all the time.
Back then, if you recall, I had a wife who loved me dearly. And as for my offspring, they clung to every word. “Papa,” my eldest child used often say, with a tear in her eye whilst clutching my hand, “You are both great and wise.”
Oh, I remember it well. They were the days when the wine flowed and the rain never fell. A time when my hair was as dark as a raven’s. And what have I now? Well, I have sheep now. And when you have sheep, you have time for little else.
I’m recognised these days around the farm as the grumpy, grey-haired old fellow with the faraway look in his eyes. I’m the old man who shouts out phrases like, “Where are they gone! Where are my hoors of hell!”
You see, I have discovered since purchasing the sheep that they are on a eternal search for an escape route, any escape route. And it matters little how luscious or green their grass might be. Paradise for a sheep always resides on the other side of the ditch.
And when it comes to the business of escaping, I have noticed that my ewes are particularly fond of crawling under things in an effort to gain their freedom.
Of course when they can’t crawl under, they can be very inclined to leap over any obstacle in their way.
And then sometimes when they can neither go under or over, they will simply shoot straight on through. A sheep is a marvel really when it comes to escaping. Houdinis in sheep’s clothing.
Speaking of clothing, last week, another terrible beauty was born, when the time came to have my sheep shorn.
Rubbing my hands with glee, I expected to be handsomely rewarded for my work, as I hauled my jeep full of wool back to my local wool merchants.
I expected to come home with my pockets brimming with gold and silver, and clutching woolly jumpers for all. The whole family would be attired like the Clancy brothers by the end of it, and to hell with the fine weather.
But alas, once again, I was in for a nasty shock, when I found that once my shearers were paid — and by the way, they weren’t expensive — I came out with a grand total of next to nothing.
So it would seem that even when it comes to the business of shearing, in the sheep game ’tis the farmer who gets the greatest fleecing of all.
