I must be the only man in the parish who hasn’t gone on holidays this summer.

It’s been mad entirely, with the amount of people heading here and there, and many now telling me of the wonderful time they had in France, or waffling on about the sites they saw in Costa del someplace or other.

Anyhow, regardless of where you have been this summer, I’ll bet none had a better summer break than a weanling bull of mine who spent two weeks over on the farm of my neighbour Joe.

The weanling had a whale of a time, indeed I’m not sure he’s over it yet.

It all began two weeks ago when I spotted him, missing from the herd. There he was, gone.

I knew him well, for he’s the weanling with the big balls. Balls that would win a prize at an agricultural show, if ever a competition was designed to judge such things. He’d win hands down.

I searched high up and low down for him on the farm, never suspecting for a moment that my boyo had rambled off to pastures new.

After a good few days of fruitless searching, I of course began to fear the worst.

Thinking my poor old weanling was snared in some class of a ravine.

And I was sorry for him too, even if I hadn’t spent a fortune in purchasing him in the first place.

Yerra, I had snapped him up for a song at the mart, for his balls were the biggest part of him.

He was an íochtar in every other sense.

But I was sorry to lose him all the same, for us farmers like to think that all creatures are safe and happy on the land.

Anyway, for a week or more, no trace of him could be detected, and just when I had given up all hope of ever seeing him again, who should appear in my yard only my neighbour, Joe and he wondering if I was missing a peculiar weanling.

“Be God I am,” says I with a tear of joy in my eye, for I was overwhelmed with the news. I was just like the father of the prodigal son.

I had presumed him dead, you see.

And a little later again, back to my farm came Joe, this time carting my wild rover of a weanling in his trailer.

Back home came my weanling bull, like a Yank returning to the old country.

“Well, would you look at him?” I proudly exclaimed to Joe, and my weanling peering out of Joe’s trailer like the Duke of Westminster.

He was a boyo after a vacation in a million, and he had all the signs of it.

For starters, the weather had been simply glorious for his vacation. And as for grub, my neighbour Joe has the grass just right. You’d eat it yourself, ’tis so tasty.

And with a few heifers thrown in for good measure, sure he must have been like Hugh Hefner in the Playboy Mansion. ’Twas a wonder he ever came home at all.

Touching briefly on the subject of the heifers, without wanting to be crude or vulgar, Joe felt that my weanling bull was too small to have done any damage.

But I wonder, for if I know this bull at all, it wouldn’t be from the want of trying.

Anyway, the main point of the thing was my weanling bull is back and he after a most thrilling time away.

A holiday the likes of which could not be matched anywhere in the world.


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