Swarting

Last week, Mum brought me up country to visit the relatives. My cousin, Michelle, was home from London with her first baby; a gorgeous, happy little six month old called Cormac.

 

Before we left, I persuaded my uncle to let me drive his tractor. I consider it outrageous that in all the years I spent growing on my family’s farm, I never got to wreak havoc with a tractor. In a scene reminiscent of Sophie’s Choice, I ripped Michelle away from Cormac, and Uncle Anslie gave over his Valtra Valmet T170 to us. Michelle balanced on the seat atop one of the wheels while Anslie issued garbled instruction from a precarious perch on the swarting machine affixed to the back:

 

“Turn er dah way!”

 

“Which way? Left?”

 

“Naw! DAH way!”

 

“Where- right?”

 

“Naw! Naw! Other way!”

 

“Up- up the ditch?”

 

“NAW! Wha’ did I tell ya?”

 

“Er.”

 

This is the man who, on the way home from market one day, mysteriously lost two cows out of a trailer. Could have had something to do with the style of driving favoured by the typical Irish farmer, allied with the trailer door swinging wide open. Anslie returned to hunt down his cows, who were grazing by the side of the road about twenty miles back. He coaxed them into the trailer by way of a kick up the arse, reinforced the door with baling twine, and drove home . . . only to find the cows had fallen out of the trailer again.

 

(There’s no happy ending to this - what d’you expect? Any story involving cattle ends up in the giant farm in the sky.)

 

I’m hoping this illustrates why Anslie had no problem with me taking his €50000 tractor out on the open road:

 

“Come on Anslie, it’s no FUN going around a field. And I can’t say I’ve REALLY driven a tractor until I’ve been down a main road with at least 20 cars backed up behind me.”

 

“Supposin’ yer right, ar. Take ‘er up hill.”

 

“You SERIOUS? Aw, FANTASTIC!”

 

So off we went up the hill, Anslie still clinging grimly to the back of the tractor.

 

“You think I could swart the hedgerow?” I asked, just on the off chance.

 

“Chrisht, NAW! Keep ‘er straight!”

 

“It’s pretty responsive, isn’t it?”

 

“Ar. Steerin’s bit timid al’ right.”

 

“Ok, I need to know how to salute people. The farmer’s nod. Does it go like this? Or this?”

 

“Never nod the head up,” said Michelle knowledgeably; she grew up down the road from The Farm. “People will think you’re up yourself, sticking your nose in the air.”

 

“An’ wan finger up aff da steerin’ weel. Like dah. Ar.”

 

I’m not sure I will ever make a farmer; there were only three people behind me when I PULLED INTO A GATEWAY TO LET THEM PASS. It is doubtful whether I have the robust insouciance of character required for farming life. Being a total wuss probably doesn’t help either

 

 

Photo by Michelle - Anneslie with me in the tractor and the remains of a bush that got in the way