Denis Lehane: The last waltz for the bachelor farmer
Fellows are pleading for the return of Bolton, DeBurgh and Bonnie Tyler.
"You touched a nerve," an old fellow said to me at Macroom Mart last Saturday, as we stood side by side looking at a few dry cows.
My lonesome friend, a bachelor farmer for many years, was of course referring to my recent call for the restoration of the slow set.
"Tis the talk of the place," says he, before blowing his nose violently, and then putting his weary hand on my shoulder.
"Keep fighting for us, young man," he pleaded, before turning his back on me and hobbling away into the rain.
Hobbling home no doubt to a lonely yard, a lonely house, and a lonely fireside.
Damn it all. It broke my heart. And mine is a hard heart to break. Twas like the kind of thing you'd see on the telly in one of them lonesome movies.
The tale of the farmer without love.
And as I watched him go, I promised I would help.
But first, I decided to retire to a public house for a little refreshment. An army, after all, never marches into battle on an empty stomach, and neither do I.
A few days later, while speaking to a friend of mine, who was once West Cork's finest slow set DJ, the topic of the slow set once again took centre stage.
He told me that after the slow set ban came into force (for a ban is surely what it was) he would still be asked in whispers (and in desperation, no doubt) at weddings and suchlike to play a round or two for the diehards.
And being a compassionate and understanding individual, he would naturally oblige.
But that wasn't the end of it. For eventually even at a wedding, the slow set was banished. Can you imagine? The most romantic of days and it devoid of Jennifer Rush?
Anyhow, we move quickly on.
So where does that leave us?
Well today, I feel a bit like Monsignor James Horan, and he knowing full well that an airport is needed up there in Knock, even if he has no desire to fly himself.
The slow set may be behind me, but I still have an understanding of the huge demand that exists.
And like the clergyman behind the airport in Mayo, I will stop at nothing until the slow dance runway is lit up, and flights are taking off one after another.
But like the plucky monsignor, I realise there is no point in me calling for action, without the public desiring the same. So this is where you come in.
Today I am calling for action.
In all my years of writing for this paper, I have never asked for a single thing, other than a willing reader, and perhaps a loan of some money.
However. today, as 2023 draws to a close, all has changed. I am calling on you to help me kick open the dance hall door. We need to fight for the lonely heartbroken that still exist in rural Ireland. This cannot be the last waltz for the bachelor farmer. I won't allow it.
Bachelors are in trouble my dear friend, and there is no point in denying it.
The silence, the lack of movement, it simply cannot be ignored any longer.
I have a DJ willing to spin the discs, I have at least 32 bachelor farmers at various stages in life all willing to give it welly, all we need now is the green light.
Write to your newspaper in support of their cry. Call on your local public representative to bring the matter up in the Dáil. Seek out a compassionate priest for help.
If you are part of an organisation, a team or an institution, get them behind the locomotion. The return of the slow set, like the construction of an airport up there in Knock airport, can only be achieved with many shoulders to the wheel, noses to the grindstone and literally feet on the dance floor.
