Festival Fit is keepin’ it country

There’s a breed of surfer out there who steers clear of branded T-shirts, doesn’t have a special pair of sunglasses just for the top of their head, and only attaches a surfboard to the roof of their car when they’re actually going surfing. For these rare amphibians, riding waves has transcended sport and become an integral part of what makes them tick.

I was down the beach at home early one morning when I saw two old friends meeting in their wetsuits, with longboards under their arms; one of these guys has been surfing here for more than 40 years. As they trotted off towards the tide I thought to myself , “There they go – Soul Surfers.”

This sort of elemental character isn't just found by the seaside. It seems farm machinery, country'n'Irish music, livestock and old-fashioned fun can get in the blood, too. Running the hipster gauntlet at music festivals can get tiresome occasionally, but nothing replenishes festival enthusiasm like a visit to an old-skool, earthy, fun fête in a field. Before Electric Picnic, Oxegen, Féile, Lisdoon and even Woodstock, there were Irish people getting their freak on in fields. Puck Fair in Killorglin is celebrating its 400th year. And what was Newgrange but the precursor to Pink Floyd's light show and an excuse for a beano by the Boyne? The pagan contingent know how to throw a decent session – they've been at it for ages.

CAN U DIG IT?
If there was ever a risk of forgetting how enjoyable these rural get-togethers can be, it was shoved out the gap with cattle-prod last week when I got to play a game called "Balance the Sliotar on the Traffic Cone with the Digger". Punters at Tractor Nuts Festival were invited to sit into a digger that had its shovel removed and replaced by a length of bailer twine attached to a screw that'd been driven into a sliotar (that's the small bog-ball, for any Leinster rugby supporters reading this). The sliotar hangs by the twine from the arm of the digger and it's your job to manoeuvre the machine so that the ball comes to rest on top of a traffic cone in front of the rig.

Xbox 360 me bollix! This was more fun than flicking matches at Marty Whelan’s petrol-soaked moustache (almost).

Tractor Nuts Festival was running in Borris, Co Carlow, and it served as a suitable entrée for its country cousin, Dunderry Country Fair in Co Meath on Sunday. It was a weekend of wellies.

After initial ramblings round Tractor Nuts there seemed to be a distinct lack of both vehicles and head-the-balls; I was worried there’d been some false advertising. It turned out that they were all “above in the top field” putting the machines through their paces. Martin offered the lads a lift up in his 1968 Ford V8 pickup, converted from a vintage hearse. He didn’t have to ask twice.

I asked Martin if the ploughing was an exhibition or competition as part of the festival. “Nah, the lads just like having a bit of a plough.” He explained that while boy-racers enjoy handbrake turns and doughnuts, tractor enthusiasts like hooking up their chargers to old ploughs and turning a sod.

Sure enough, when we got to the field, there were no spectators or judges with clipboards, just a handful of enthusiasts with tractors that have been around since de Valera was taoiseach, doing exactly what they'd been built to do. I watched a 1952 Fordson Power Major glint in the springtime sunshine, a wave of soil breaking over the rusted red blade of its old plough, releasing the heady scent of freshly turned earth. The air reverberated to the hearty chug of well-maintained machines as they powered past over hillocks, leaving freshly furrowed soil in their wake, and I thought to myself ,"There they go – Soul Farmers."

Safe travels, don’t die.