Farmer Writes: I've lost interest in this year's crops

They say it’s good to be pushed out of your comfort zone. Well, this awful spring has certainly done that and I can’t say that I like it. Everything had to be done in a rush and the quality of work has gone out the window.

Sowing was a mad rush in the one good week, a couple of weeks ago. The fields were barely dry enough but still, like everyone else, we pushed ahead.

But I cocked up with the beans which are too shallow and may be susceptible to herbicide damage. The seedbeds were not hectic, a fact that is conveniently concealed by the roller.

Spraying and fertilising was the same with moderate conditions, but I’m not that bothered because I’ve lost interest in this year’s crops. We’re finished sowing the combinable crops; arable silage and a multi species ley remain.

Other than that, we’re up to date, but it’s a pity this didn’t happen a month ago.

A living will

Fintan Flynn was an avaricious dairy farmer with a love of land and place that unfortunately came before absolutely everything.

He was married to the long-suffering Esther for 27 years and the couple reared two children, Marie and Joe, neither of whom wished to farm. This caused Fintan great distress, but it’s hardly surprising. He effectively drove them away from the unhappy family home.

Fintan was very fractious and not a nice fellow. Esther had threatened to leave him many times, but like some wives in former years, was trapped with nowhere to go.

But, to the outside world Fintan presented a different image about town, dapperly turned out in a country shirt, gilet and hat.

You may, by now, have guessed that I’m talking about a fictitious character (although there were many like him and possibly still are).

Fintan Flynn is the central character in the play, A Living Will, which the Summerhill drama group were playing in the village theatre. We were there recently and it was a great night’s entertainment. But I was nearly killed…

Mrs P and our companions dressed up for the night but that’s alien to me at the best of times. And with no disrespect to downtown Summerhill, it’s not exactly showtime Dublin.

Rushing in from sowing, I had a quick Radox dip and while switching the cutterbar on the Gillette Fusion 5 razor, I (politely) asked Mrs P what I should wear.

She suggested that my usual gear would do – that was an all clean outfit of jeans, an Alfco check shirt and Yara gilet. All was well until the interval. We went for drinks and then the bell called us back into the little theatre.

An attractive blond woman turned to me (as an attractive balding man, so I can’t be called sexist) and said vehemently; ‘If I’d that poker Mrs Flynn was brandishing, I’d have run it through you.’ I was greatly surprised as I didn’t know what I’d done wrong.

Maybe I’d spilled drink over her on the way from the bar? Didn’t think so and certainly OTT if I did.

Sister-in-law Gráinne burst out laughing. Personally, I didn’t think it funny and was about to quickly exit the scene, while I could.

‘She thinks you’re Fintan Flynn,’ Gráinne said. It had occurred to me that yes, we were dressed very alike in stereotypic farmer gear. Two minutes later the blond lady turned, smiled and said ‘Very, very sorry, I thought you were him.’

I hope that’s the only similarity I have with Fintan Flynn, and I won’t spoil it by telling what happened to him in the end but I hope Mrs P doesn’t get any ideas.