I retired from farming when I was 12 on account of a near-catastrophic accident that could have put paid to my budding sports career.
My uncle farmed my grandparents’ land and one day I was doing my duty, manning the stall door for him as he drove the cattle in to be milked. A herd of Friesian cows made their way dolefully down a well-worn, familiar path towards the stall. For reasons I never fully understood the cows would walk at, well, a snail’s pace – if it is even possible for cows to walk at a snail’s pace – down the cowpath. But as soon as they passed through the field gate on to the concrete, they upped the gears, and the lazy meander down the field soon became a dash for the stall door.
I often wondered why this was, but I suppose they were looking forward to being fed and watered. Or else they just really, really liked being milked.
On this day, a particularly excited Friesian made for the stall door I was manning. I had to stand there to make sure they didn’t pass out the stall door and go astray onto the road. As she was taking the corner, her udder was so full it slapped off her right hind leg causing her to slip and her hoof slid out from underneath her.
What do you think stopped her slide?
My left foot, that’s what. I was wearing a pair of wellingtons at the time like any proper start-up farmer. Scant protection from a missile hoof. The Friesian grazed my toes and sent me hopping. I had a hurling game the following evening and, as I slid my bloodied foot out of my bloody wellington, the thought crossed my mind that I might miss the match.
I didn’t in the end, thankfully, but I did retire from farming. Oh, and I haven’t worn a pair of wellingtons or been near a Friesian since.
LISTEN: You Must Be Jokin’ with Aideen McQueen – Faith healers, Coolock craic and Gigging as Gaeilge
