The smell of warm, sweet fresh hay will immediately take you back to a country childhood. Likewise, the sight of an old ‘square’ bale and a stack or cock of hay will bring good thoughts of a childhood summer, spent saving the hay. Nostalgia is a funny thing. The days seemed longer back then. The weather seemed to be better and the craic was mighty. There was a camaraderie and a sense of purpose to the task.
The meitheal that was needed to save enough fodder to get through the winter, meant neighbour helping neighbour. Women were feeding the large numbers of farm workers while children were getting in the way and doing their small bit to get the job done. All available hands took to the fields.
When the romantic lenses of nostalgia are removed, the truth may well be different. We had callouses and blisters from the bailing twine and the scythe. Nettles and thistle stung your hands. Sunburn was assisted by the liberal use of Nivea or nothing. Flies ate the face off you as you fought with your siblings for the last Marietta biscuit. Oh they were the good old days alright!
Still, anyone who grew up in the country will confirm that the taste of tea, bread and jam, eaten in a mown field, was better than any cordon bleu meal in your fancy restaurant. Lying back in the cut grass, with the adults chatting quietly during a break from work. The bees buzzing in the heat. Bliss! Cutting the hay was a back breaking job. Hay was cut into swaths and left to dry for a few weeks. The Child of Prague statue went into overdrive as it was charged with good weather, to keep both hay and turf dry in these first crucial weeks. If luck was with you, you turned the hay and then shook it out to dry some more.
The talk at the dinner table was always dominated with the state of play on the hay or the turf. It was an important part of our lives and we loved it. Baling, baling baling. Hay baling day was a big event. The pure satisfaction of going home, perched on top of a trailer load of rickety bales cannot be rivalled. It was a magic moment. A half dozen kids bobbin about on the hay bales, waving at neighbours, jostling, slagging and giggling.
Thanks to the advancement of mechanisation and the introduction of (essential) health and safety rulings, this perfect memory, is just that. A perfect memory! The passing years have erased the memory of back pain and scraped legs. Time has eased the memory of cuts on the hands, where the baling twine bit through. The abiding joy of that sweet warm moist smell of hay and the hunger for the big tea at home is all that remains.
Good times.
Good memories.
