Denis Lehane: Farm love, the impossible rural dream
A job, I suspect, RTÉ is as familiar with, as I am with the workings of a cuckoo clock, writes Farming columnist Denis Lehane.
I hear RTÉ is now involving itself in the business of rural matchmaking.
A job, I suspect, RTÉ is as familiar with, as I am with the workings of a cuckoo clock.
But fair play to RTÉ - at least someone is trying.
The station's new programme, 'Love in the Country' is Donnybrook's effort of dipping its urban toe into the tempestuous waters of rural matchmaking.
They haven't a bull's notion, of course, of the delicacies involved. I predict the show will be over before it begins. An outright disaster, a bore that will last no longer than a fortnight.
The main problem with programmes like this is that the makers usually focus on the wrong kind of single people.
My thoughts, as always, are with the underdog. The fellow hiding outside in the bushes. The man who is almost too shy to look at a television screen, never mind appear on it.
The man who gets startled by the noise of the female voice, never mind actually meeting one in person, is the fellow who needs the help most of all.
I was recently approached by a farmer in his 87th year, who said he was in search of a wife. He was a long ways from being shy, but still, he would have made an interesting candidate for any dating show.
Comfortable financially speaking, after a lifetime of working the land, he now felt the time was right to focus on the future and a wife.
And indeed, after a bit of searching, I did set him up with a lady from the far side of Macroom.
A widow whose husband had suffered ill health for many years after receiving a kick from a donkey while on honeymoon back in Killarney before the turn of the century.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, I proposed a venue, a date was agreed and after a spell of struggling to find a suit, they met face-to-face and in person.
Introductions were made, pleasantries exchanged. The night I thought was going well - I was there as a class of chaperone, of course.
But alas, after a couple of jars, the tongue of my primed-up bachelor loosed up enough for him to launch into a crude tale about how a low-sized bull of his had managed to service cows on the fall of ground.
Yerra, while a funny and indeed true story, it had no place in polite society and the widow, being a respectable lady, felt after that junction, he wasn't worth giving up the pension for.
Indeed, she insisted on being taken home immediately before any more drink was consumed, either by the gregarious octogenarian or myself.
So, you can see now, the mighty task ahead of RTÉ. Matching can be a tricky task, drunk or sober.
The national broadcaster can glamourise it all they like, but I believe strongly that it would be far easier to get a TV license fee out of a rural hand, rather than getting a loving hand into it.
