And that ladies and gentlemen was March. We’re glad that’s out of the way. Now on walks back the road, we’re assessing the fields. While you’re on the way back the road, he says, tell me what way is Sallies. So we walk our usual route and pass our small river that divides Hearthill from Ardoughtar and watch as the water that has poured down on us during recent weeks runs out of the fields. That’s a first good sign. The water is draining. Now for the main test, walking through the fields.
There is a scientific way to do this but I’m not the strong student of agricultural science yet that I have the authority to describe it so forgive me if I skimp on the detail. I begin by telling himself that the lower field, Sallies, was waterlogged by the gate. It always is he reassures me easing my dramatic tendancies that ten years a country woman continues to cling to me for effect. Our eldest son tells him the grass was picky. The two others boys tell him by the muck on their boots that it was soft enough but it was good exercise as small legs had to lift high to make their way through the fields. Enough grass. Is it fit for grazing? You’re asking me? Well, I’d say yes. Em. Yes. We’ll see the cows back there this week. And the higher field in Ardoughter? Could I put the yearlings in there? Oh, the pressure. Yes, I’d say yes. Strong enough, plentiful I add trying my best to describe it accurately for him before he confirms it with his own eyes. The yearlings could go back there.
Yearly, I become more accurate (and more interested) in describing the condition and quantity of grass though you might agree that I have a bit to go. But who would have thought that watching the grass grow on an Irish farm in North Kerry would be an interesting occupation for a former city girl. Although stranger things have happened. The going is good to soft. We’ll take it.