Denis Lehane: My Walter Mitty wedding boots
When you are wearing dealer boots, you rarely put a foot wrong writes Farming columnist Denis Lehane.
There is nothing I like better than slipping into my old boots.
And while I can appreciate my cap and coat, my boots are simply outstanding.
They are dealer boots, of course; I wouldn't put a foot into anything less. Nor have I put a foot into anything more - or better for that matter, in over thirty years.
Besides, I never know when I might be called upon to intervene in the purchase of a bullock. A dealer's work is never done.
Anyhow, a few months back we got word that my wife's nephew, Michael, was to marry this wonderful Galway girl called Ciara.
Naturally, we all jumped for joy, for times had been tough what with Covid and the cattle. A big day out was exactly what the doctor ordered.
In due course, the suit was taken down and aired out in preparation for the happy event.
Indeed, I insisted - with firmness I rarely exhibit - that the boots would remain firmly on my feet; after all, they were clean and in good enough order.
"Only the man above," says I. "Or an undertaker, has the power to remove them - and even then, he may have a struggle."
I felt I had to make a stand with regards to my old boots, for I do like them a lot.
Anyhow, the wedding took place two weeks ago in the windswept and very beautiful village of Quilty, Co Clare. It was a wonderful occasion.
Afterwards, we headed to Doolin for the reception and it was here that my boots really shone.
For once, the meal and all the trimmings were out of the way, on came the band and the toe-tapping began.
Indeed, it wasn't too long before we were all out on the dancefloor with myself leading the charge.
Very soon I was making moves that would put Michael Flatley to shame.
A few toes were stepped on in the process, but as the old saying goes, you can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs.
Soon the floor was opening up, and like a rural John Travolta I was throwing shapes the likes of which you'd only have seen in the film 'Saturday Night Fever'.
My boots might be made for walking, but they were certainly useful for dancing, allowing me to glide in all the right places.
Like a young calf released in May, there was no stopping me. I was bucking all over the place.
And with my strong boots keeping me anchored after my many pirouettes, not even the Bull McCabe himself could match me for stamina on the dance floor. I was a sight to behold.
An admiring audience soon gathered round; they began to cheer me on.
I had feet of flames; in fact, they were so hot they were practically burning.
Then I heard the soothing voice of my missus and she elbowed me to wake up: "Don't you burn the feet from under you."
I had fallen asleep as the wedding band had kicked off, my dance floor antics had been all a dream. The only dancing I had done was in my head.
I had feet of flames alright, my boots were smokin' hot.
But luckily for me, dealer boots are made of sturdy stuff, they have kept cattle dealers cool in times of great heat for generations - a blazing fire was a trivial matter for such robust footwear.
You see, at the end of the day, when you are wearing dealer boots - be it at a cattle mart or family wedding - you rarely put a foot wrong.
