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I always have the idea of having a party to celebrate the end of the harvest. However, when we get there, everyone is too wrecked to bother. This year, I found out that someone decided to throw a massive party at the farm anyway. To say that it was a surprise party is an understatement.
One day was going to be our last day of harvest with just a 30 acre block of beans to harvest in a beautiful field that I rent next to the local beach.
There had been a bit of planning before I got out of bed at 6.30 in the morning.
My contractors, Macken Brothers, are meticulous with their machinery and keep the equipment in perfect condition. This is great for people like me who rely on these guys to show up and get the job done with minimal breakdowns.
The flip side is that they don’t like taking risks with their team. While there is a perfectly good entrance to the field via a railway line, as the machines get bigger and bigger, they have reached a point where they no longer fit between the cut stone bridge walls.
The only other alternative is to access the field from the beach, which sounds good in theory, but is fraught with danger if you are the proud owner of a € 150,000 combine harvester.
First we have to wait for low tide and then find a route across the Delvin River and around a headland without hitting any soft spots in the sand.
Harvesters do not like to be thrown away and will actually stretch their guts if they are pulled from behind. Therefore, avoiding sinking is essential.
I had all time set up for advanced vehicles to scout the route on Sunday morning, but only found out the day before that the county council had installed lovely new scrambler barriers to prevent all vehicles from having access to the beach .
I am fully in favor of this as the bikes hopping up and down the walkers on Gormanston Beach was a threat I was well aware of.
The only problem was that a four meter harvester would never go through a 3 meter wide barrier.
Some panicked calls to my local councilor Amanda Smith followed, and I threatened angle grinders and sleds if that barrier got between me and saving my crop. Typical hot-tempered stuff that farmers are guilty of spitting out as they struggle to cross the finish line of a frustrating harvest.
Credit to Whose Credit: The barriers were removed Saturday night on the condition that I would readjust and completely modify them to ensure we don’t have the same problem next year.
So as I was walking down the road early Sunday, I reckoned that most eventualities were covered. The motley crew that I noticed waiting at a random bus stop along the way caught my eye, but was fired from my brain as fast as I passed them.
I was also a bit surprised to find a car crew parked at the entrance to the beach at 7.10am when I got there. It was dawn, so I figured it must have been a great walk or maybe a sports club at the end of the day’s session.
My job was to make sure no one was parking in a way that would stop the combine that was supposed to be there at 8am.
True to form, the Macken arrived at 8am and we escorted them to the beach and across the river without incident.
I went ahead to get to the field entrance and make sure I had the correct key for the lock. When I rounded the headland, I immediately saw some random men standing at the entrance to the field.
I was immediately suspicious. This is a fairly remote place, with only a few walkers venturing this far along the coast.
When I arrived, I could see from the beer cans in hand that they were revelers who had been partying all night. I went out hoping this wasn’t going to be more awkward than it needed to be.
But they started to walk away from me, back across the field toward a ruin that overlooks the front of the site. As I followed him, my jaw dropped. I could see people, maybe hundreds, emerging from the ruins, scattering when word spread that the farmer had arrived.
My brain only gradually computed what I was seeing. Massive speakers, decks, tables, campfires, taxis, vans, people, more people, none of whom spoke English. What the hell was going on here!
I pulled out my phone to start recording, both for my own protection and to gather evidence of what was going on.
I stammered that the party was over, that this was private property and that everyone should leave immediately.
And then a miracle happened. They all turned to go. There was no abuse. Some apologized, while others left with black garbage bags that collect cans and bottles.
In 10 minutes they were all gone. When I took the last of them out onto the road to make sure the site was clear, I discovered that they were all Brazilians from Dublin. Some were students, others obviously had more resources at their disposal if their Series 5 Beemers were something to go through.
Everyone was filled with the joys in life, wanting to give me hugs for being so understanding and not calling the police. Maybe I should have notified the authorities of this flagrant violation of COVID 19 regulations, but with the rain forecast, I really just wanted to save my crops.
And honestly, I was grateful. It scares me to think of the clashes that would have occurred if it had been an Irish party. In hindsight, many of those Brazilians might have been more concerned with obtaining their visas than prolonging their party.
And then we continue with the rest of the day’s work to complete the harvest.
Darragh McCullough Farms at www.elmgrovefarm.ie in Meath
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