Taking stock in the west

Cavanman's Diary

It was very early as we headed west, obnoxiously early, in fact, for someone in my game - and especially for a Saturday.

“I’ll meet you at Stag Hall chapel at seven o’clock, don’t be late,” my co-farmer for the day had instructed via text.

“In the morning?” I wondered, slightly shocked. I figured it had to be but then, I couldn’t be certain either – I hadn’t been to a mart since the mid-1990s.

So, it was still dark as I got into his jeep, wiping the sleep from my eyes, and we took off in the direction of Ballymote, Co Sligo. Now, as it happens, Ballymote is a town I know vaguely because there’s a handball club there. In fact, the alley is literally in the shadow of the mart and I wondered if maybe I’d be able to wander out between sales and take in a game – or at least have a good look at the court, which is something from which the real sickos like myself derive pleasure.

I had accepted an invitation from a farmer of my close acquaintance to attend the Western Simmental Society Simmental Cross heifer sale and I agreed, out of curiosity and also to mine some content for this page, which isn’t always easy (I know, you can tell). Sometimes, filing 1,000 words or thereabouts isn’t too bad but often, it feels like the Cavanman’s Diary is powered by non-renewable energy - and it’s depleting by the week.

So, you’ll appreciate that my antennae was twitching on the day as I tried to tune into the frequency, to bring home enough rock from which to quarry a column.

The date was October 4; you may remember that the evening before had been wild. There were trees down, debris everywhere, water on the road in places as we headed through Ballyconnell, Ballinamore, Carrick-On-Shannon, Castlebaldwin and onwards, a lovely part of the country, even in wintry weather.

A fellow farmer called at one point to see how the roads were. “Roads clear, power on,” my driver told him.

We stopped for diesel in Carrick, where there wasn’t even a straggler from a Stag party to be seen, the wind and rain presumably having confined them to barracks.

Two tradesmen-types were standing at the deli counter, ready for action.

“Bad morning...” came the opening gambit.

“A tramp,” replied his comrade.

“I might get the roof on that house today.”

“Ya might... but it could be beyant in Leitrim village.”

On we went. We hit Ballymote around 9am and it was busy, like the buzz around Breffni Park an hour before the county final (more of which later). This, as it turned out, was the 30th anniversary of this sale, which is organised by a local society, a club of sorts for farmers and breeders. Potential buyers come from all over, I discovered; one man told me he liked this breed because they are docile and “very good mothers with a lot of milk”. I nodded in agreement.

Being early, we had time to take a stroll and evaluate the stock. By now, we had met a friend from deepest Leitrim. “We’ll go for the breakfast,” he implored, “you’d be as well trying to pick the Lotto numbers as pick a heifer standing in the pen. We’ll pick them in the ring.”

And there’s where we headed next. I’ve heard it said a boxing ring is the only one that is square; I now know that isn’t true – but there are similarities. There is certainly combat of sorts, there are announcers, there are interested observers ringside, straining to see what’s happening. Flurries of dramatic activity quicken the pulse.

Above the ring is the lively canteen, where the staff were friendly and seemed to know everyone and where we consumed the fry-up as the lads discussed tactics. There is a glass front on the canteen and some cute buyers will watch from on high. “Quare hawk, yon lad,” I heard a fella say, nodding upwards.

A large screen behind the announcer’s gantry lists the seller’s details, the lot number, the animal’s weight, date of birth and other personal details; GDPR, it seems, doesn’t extend to cows.

On the wall, curiously, was a printed sign, entirely without context, reading “With all the rural pubs closing, the older generation doesn’t have a social outlet”. Now, I wouldn’t disagree with the statement but it seemed a little… I don’t know, lost maybe, where it was.

The action threw in around 10am, after a little bit of speeching from the organisers; I was happy to see a familiar face calling the play in the form of Eamon Gaffney. The man on the mic was due to high-tail it – no pun intended – to Breffni Park later that evening as the Cornafean team who won the Junior Championship in 2000 were to be honoured at half-time in the Junior Championship final.

As it turned out, this year’s final was postponed till the following afternoon. The Celt’s report on the game 25 years ago – in which the flying wing-back famously came up with a goal deep in injury time to thwart Drumgoon – noted that his strike “snatched victory from the jaws of defeat” and as the day wore on, I realised he has made a habit of it. On several occasions, when the market was slack, Gaffney, like one of those American preachers in full flow, converted someone with the right word at just the right time. Hallelujah!

Anyway, the heifers were paraded into the ring, one by one, and Gaffney had his say. “In-calf with sexed semen!” he announced at one point, to general murmurs of approval around me.

Another was “carrying a heifer calf, ladies and gentlemen”. Yet another, like a car that hadn’t got much abuse, had a lady owner. One heifer was due to calve on December 25 – “Christmas Day!” Gaffney implored as he stirred the pot. The trade was so hot that Gaffney, like a Nascar driver, needed a spotter on his shoulder, relaying information.

At one point, he waved a crisp 50. “There’s €50 for luck with this one – watch out for the Cavanmen, they like the 50s!” he announced, nodding in our direction. The general sense I detected was that the Cornafean man was on form.

I scanned the other buyers. One wizened trader, homework done earlier, had a list of lot numbers scrawled on his hand, which he checked every now and then with a downward glance in the manner of a cagey card-player. As things heated up, his palms got sweaty; I could see the numbers starting to fade.

Another sage judge in my vicinity had his phone out and was bidding online; it struck me as unusual, like sitting across from someone and texting them. But he clearly didn’t want his rival bidders to know what he was up to, either.

As the morning wore on, I began to get the hang of things, to figure out what sort of qualities were prized here. When an animal would come into the ring, I would give the eyes to my companion – I was afraid to move any other body part in case it cost me a few grand – and he would indicate if this beast was the real deal or not.

“A lovely level heifer,” I heard someone comment at one stage. “She’s maternal of herself,” said another man. Still wary of sudden movements, I winked in agreement.

This newfound expertise culminated in a surreal moment around noon when, to my surprise, I found myself mildly contradicting my neighbour. A heifer had sold for three grand, which the man to my right seemed to think was good value.

“Now,” I said, warming to things, “it was plenty for her!”

It was at this point I reined things back in and took a wander outside to get some fresh air – it’s stuffy in the mart - and look at the handball alley after all.

What struck me most was the extraordinary prices fetched; they’ll not thank me for saying it but farmers are awash with money at present. Whether it lasts or not, though, nobody can say.

Soon, the selling and buying was over and in surprisingly quick time, the paperwork was complete and we were heading back across the Shannon, me, my friend, half a dozen heifers and one Cavanman’s Diary, signed, sealed and delivered.