Making hay while the sun shines... sort of!

Herd Immunity

The latest instalment of our farming column.

Sean Deere

So despite my prediction of impending doom heading for The Bad Farmer’s crop of hay in last week’s column, amazingly, he got it baled up dry in the nick of time. The round baler was barely out the gate when the drops began to fall.

“That was well timed,” he said proudly, chest out, as if he had somehow magically held the rain off till his hay was baled.

“You’re as lucky as a cut cat,” I replied, pulling on my jumper to keep the drizzle off my back. In fairness, the amount of rain that actually fell was minimal but as we all know, “hay wants no rain”.

“Thanks for the help, Sean,” TBF said, as his victory lap continued, “I think the clutch is banjaxed on my yoke.”

The truth was that TBF had rang in a panic an hour earlier to say the baler was en route and that, quelle surprise, the hay wasn’t rowed up. I had literally arrived seconds before the baler and had a tough job keeping the hay rowed up in front of the baler as he roared through the swarths.

As I rowed up, the smell of the hay brought back memories off my youth, both good and bad. Making the hay is a kind of love hate thing (less Nidge, more midges).

The wet year of ’85 was probably the final nail in the coffin for mass hay-making in this country. Most farmers went with round bales thereafter and hay became a niche way of saving fodder.

Don’t get me wrong, there is still hay made every year but it’s more circumstantial now. If you have grass ready and the weather is excellent, some farmers will go for some hay.

“Hay in the shed is as good as money in the bank” was a phrase I often heard. The ‘horsey’ crowd, for example, are always on the look-out for good hay or haylage.

In the big equestrian operations, money is no object. Coolmore Stud in Tipperary have hay making down to a fine art and even have air fans in the barns to finish drying out hay that wasn’t quite “fit” at baling.

I remember a picture in the front of the Journal some years back - 2013 or so, if memory serves me well - of seven small square-balers making thousands off bales during a fine spell. As far as I can recall, they made over 100,000 bales that year! Quite amazing.

I remember as a ‘gasun’ of maybe seven or eight years of age being plonked on the seat of a Ford 5000 to steer the tractor and it’s trailer up the field as a gang of men loaded the trailer. It was put in the lowest gear possible and my orders were simple: just steer around any obstacles that were in my way, like loose bales, telegraph poles or a tired helper who had decided he needed a rest.

Times change and it’s no laughing matter I suppose - the HSA would have a field day now, no pun intended - but I was king of the castle that day, sitting atop my noble stead, probably doing less than one mile per hour.

It was also my duty to count the bales as they were unloaded in the hay shed. One farmer was buying it off another so the final count was important. The selling farmer and buyer were good buddies and the craic was mighty. I was paid in choc ices for my services, with the seller telling me to add in “an odd 20 bales” to the count and the buyer to “forget about a few” at the other end. I didn’t know if I was coming or going! Great days.

I remember well that we had the field of bales almost cleared. The trailer was close to capacity but there was still a small “windrow” off hay to go. “Sure we’ll chance her on,” said one helper, wanting to put an extra few on the load. “It’ll save us coming back for a wee load.”

I knew even at that young age that this helper was thirsty and the bar stool was calling. Nothing washes the hay dust out of your throat better than a cold pint!

So on we went and built the load well above the height of the tractor. It was quite a sight, fully loaded (if it was now it would be on TikTok or Instagram instantly) and the driver gingerly headed for the gate. Alas, with the rig almost out on the road and the helpers virtually tasting the porter on their lips, the load split and crashed to the ground and the expletives rained down round me.

I was mulling all of this when TBF interrupted me, as is his wont.

“I was going to square bale it, Sean,” he remarked.

“Well,” I replied “if ya had I wouldn’t be here.”

Despite my warm memories of childhood, small square bales – and the hassle that goes with them - are not for me.