Animal Farm.

Let's take a break from the recent Old Testament theme around here and liven things up a bit. Basically, I want to tell you all how I am a) the keenest-ever future farmer's-wife-to-be and b) totally destined to suck at it.

When I first met J and we were getting to know all about each other I was FASCINATED with the fact that he'd grown up in this rural Irish farming village. We'd lie on bed at night and I would play 20 Questions. "Have you ever helped with calving?" "Did you really go up to the bog to cut turf?" "How much land do you have?" "What the fuck is turf?" etc.

I was amazed.  J was driving cars  down country roads at fourteen, working with cattle, going to their ancestrally-owned section of the peat bog to cut the aforementioned turf which they burned in their giant enamel woodstove to heat the house - basically doing all this James Herriot stuff. Meanwhile, I was firmly entrenched in city life with very few comparable experiences.

I started planning my future bucolic existence. I mentally bought French copper pans to hang on the walls of my farmhouse kitchen, alongside sprigs of drying herbs and lavender. I contemplated the choice of gingham cloth I was going to tie artfully over the tops of my homemade jams. I had whole conversations in my mind with the quaint, local purveyors of artisan breads and farmhouse cheeses.

All together now: AHAHAHAHA. 

Clearly, I didn't have a fucking clue about what farm life is really like. There I was thinking it was some gentle pastiche between Better Homes and Gardens and Babe. Well, guess what? I was a total dope.

The first time I visited the farm, J led me down to the barn at my eager request. But where was the Amish-style, hand-hewn gingerbread house of my dreams? I was presented with a red oxide, corrugated tin shed, all ugly and functional. What's more, I was terrified of the cows! Talk about embarrassing. Top of the food chain cowering from dinner. Well whatever, because cows are big, dumb, and strong. TRIPLE THREAT. 

I made a city girl FOOL of myself on my first visit. Quaking at every electric fence we had to navigate, gagging at the smell of silage, secretly judging all the owners of legit working dogs because they don't pamper them, worrying about tick bites, wasp stings, needing tetanus shots after scraping myself on rusty barbed wire...you name it, I probably dosed myself with Valium to get over it. 

I even remember dolefully sitting in the village pub holding my iPhone at multiple angles, getting more and more agitated over reception. I wanted to send my friend a text, and I still remember clearly what it said:

OMG DEEP IN RURAL IRELAND. SEND SUSHI AND WIFI STAT. 

You guys. The nearest hospital if the shit hits the fan involves air lifting. Chronic hypochondriacs cannot DEAL with that shit. So, I was pretty much a hot mess the first time round. 

Not one to, you know, take a goddamn hint ("YOU'RE PROBABLY NOT BEST SUITED FOR THIS KIND OF RUSTIC LIFE, STUPID!") I persist in dreaming of farm living. We'll move there eventually and I find myself thinking about it a lot. I was much better this time round, to be fair. Over the course of my visits, I've grown bolder. 

There were two incidents of note this last time that prove I'm not fully there yet though. 

One was when I took seven year old boy down to the barn so we could put the silage up to their trough. In the winter the cows go into the slattern house because it's too cold outside and there'd be nothing for them to eat anyway. So there we were, pitchforking merrily away. The barn door was wide open, but I was like "Meh, the cows can't get out." which they can't, so cool, right? WRONG. 

One of the cows had calved four days earlier. (J's brother K had to get up at three a.m and pull him out of the mother as he was stuck. They then gave him a shot of poitín, which is Irish moonshine to "warm him up". I TOLD YOU IT WAS OLDSCHOOL OUT THERE.)

Seven year old wimped out after ten minutes saying his hands hurt and scampered off. I decided to finish the job. Suddenly I realised the calf (being small obv) can leap in and out under the trough bars. Remember the barn door is WIDE OPEN at this point, I'm alone, the giant mother Charolais cow is now braying viciously because I'm near teh baybee. The baby kept trying to bolt past me and I was like "YOU SHALL NOT PASS!" with this fucking heavy pitchfork. Eventually I just shrieked "J!!" at the top of my lungs. He eventually sauntered in and was like "What?", strolled over toward the calf and shooed him back in like he was a well trained house dog or something. 

Well screw you J, and your insouciance. 

The other thing was when I was SURE this ram was going to kill five year old girl. We left the house early one morning to go for a walk and this huge, shaggy creepy-ass looking ram was walking right towards us up J's driveway. Then it started running, head down. I grabbed the girl, all ready to fling her over the fence to sweet safety, when suddenly he ducked to the right and through a gap in the fence to the neighbouring field. When I recounted our near miss everyone was like "Sheep are basically retarded. Stamp your foot and they flee!"

Well, alright, country mice. Well played. But I bet if we turned the tables and I, say, told you to take the underground across London at night, and pick up a bottle of wine that goes well with truite au bleu - WELL. Not so smug now eh?

I'm back in April. J's mum says she needs me to help with the calving because all the menfolk are working away then. She mentioned SHOULDER GLOVES. 

Fuuuuuuck.