A surreal scene in the annals of Irish agriculture awaits ploughing enthusiasts in Co Laois, writes Kathy Sher idan.
The man selling the giant rock-breakers looked a tad jaded. "There's some awful gobdaws here. Just watch them. They'll come and they'll kick them and they'll pull them and they'll kick them." And sure enough, they came and they kicked them and pulled them and kicked them. The politicians attending the National Ploughing Championships probably felt a bit like the rock-breakers.
The Minister, Joe Walsh, ran a short gauntlet during which he was buttonholed by Barbara, a Roscrea farmer. "I paid €16 for four striploin steaks this week," she said, "and my husband is getting 80 to 82 pence a pound for cattle. And we're getting the same price for milk that we got 10 years ago."
She was swiftly followed by Niall Dolan, a farmer's son from Limerick. "Agriculture is doing OK, but Bertie will have to get his act together," he shouted over a dozen heads. The Minister paused to look around. "What about Charlie?" he asked, mysteriously. Crumbs. What do you make of that, Niall? asked The Irish Times. "A sly dig, I'd say," said Niall, who turned 17 yesterday with his twin, Ciarán.
All in all, it was a fairly surreal scene in the annals of Irish agriculture. The novelty of being able to lie on the grass while eating your lunch, or have a quick snooze in your Sunday suit beside the horse-ploughing, or stand and hum along to Do Ya Want Your Old Lobby Washed Down? outside the Kilbricken Inn, without getting double pneumonia, was something to cherish.
This is a place where the fairground amusements are still referred to as "a carnival". Teenagers paraded, nibbling on candyfloss, while tiny Irish dancers hopped around the stage of the Guinness gig rig.
Armagh supporters grinned fit to burst, and well-wishers showered Kilkenny hurler, John Power, with congratulations. Crowds clamoured to admire the silky, white goats and the long-necked, regal-looking Burren alpacas.
Meanwhile, the Irish Countrywomen's Association raffled a patchwork quilt and a huge, iced cake while members engaged in a little flower-arranging, slate craft, beauty therapy and pyrography. The last is the art of burning pictures into wood. A whole new way, perhaps, to record politicians' promises?
But something was amiss in the set-up on the sunny "main street".
The big, airy Fianna Fáil tent was empty, the small Fine Gael one was busy, and the smaller PD one was jammed. What was that about? Cutbacks, drawled the one rumpled-looking farmer emerging from the FF emporium. He wasn't far off. Fine Gael and the PDs, it emerged, were offering tea and biscuits to all-comers, but the FF cupboard was bare. The symbolism was almost eerie.
Anyway, the laurels go to the PDs. They were launching their referendum campaign, so they were offering Nice biscuits with the tea. Nice, geddit?