Denis Lehane: How I won the Battle of the Ragwort
While you probably enjoyed a weekend with your feet up, I spent my time with a bent back, pulling yellow weeds.
Yes my friends, my weekend was spent dragging empty fertiliser bags into ragwort-laden fields and filling them with the noxious weed.
Of course, some might wonder why I didn’t simply spray the ugly things and be done with them. Well, the last time I checked, spray cost money. And with two hands at my disposal, I saw little point in splashing out when there was a more economic option. But little did I realise the task that was ahead of me.
“So how do you pull a yellow weed?” you might innocently ask.
With the greatest of difficulty, I’m sorry to report. The problem with your common-or-garden yellow weed it that is can put up a mighty fight.
You start by gripping the thing the way Tiger Woods might grip his club. Then, digging in as if you were on a tug of war team, you pull the bugger for all you are worth.
Ragwort is known by many names throughout the land. On this farm in Kilmichael over the weekend, as I fought with them, I called the weed a whole host of new colourful names. Names I dare not repeat here, for fear of upsetting readers of a more sensitive disposition.
On Saturday I was getting into my stride, with some small helpers dragging an empty fertiliser bag from time to time, giving their old man a hand as he worked on.
On Saturday evening, it being the bank holiday weekend, I felt I had to treat my wife to some class of an outing. Yerra, ’tis all part of the business of maintaining a harmonious marriage.
So I suggested, as the evening was pleasant, that we might go for a nice romantic stroll, which she happily agreed with. “Through the fields,” I added, “and if you don’t mind, you might drag this old fertiliser bag with you.”
Well, between us, we covered some ground on Saturday evening. With me pulling the weeds and my missus bagging them, a more romantic sight it would be hard to spot. Saturday night delivered a nice deluge of rain, so by Sunday morning, ground conditions were perfect for weed pulling.
But alas, with Sunday being the Lords Day, a day of rest, I didn’t know what to do. I went to mass, to see if Canon O’Callaghan might guide me.
And in his sermon, he talked about all the ‘looking and searching we do in life.’ But unfortunately, he had precious little to offer on the matter of pulling ragwort on a Sunday.
Later on, didn’t I march into the fields once more, regardless of what Canon O’Callaghan might think. And if I did, didn’t the heavens open, with an almighty shower descending upon me. It was a sign from the man above, telling me to conduct myself, so away from the field I trotted.
On Monday, I was back, pulling like the devil himself. And by Monday evening, I’m proud to report I finally got the upper hand.
With a final heave, I pulled the last weed from the ground. My back may be broken, but I could hold my head up high, my battle with the ragwort was at an end.
