Falling for a Farmer

By Maura McElhone

'I was hooked from page one. Hilarious, evocative, poignant, perceptive and beautifully written, it will strike a chord with every reader. I LOVED it!' – Patricia Scanlan


Blending amusing anecdotes with thoughtful reflections and lessons in love, life

and
farming,
Falling for a Farmer takes readers on the journey of a returned emigrant who comes back to Ireland looking to rediscover home, and does so, albeit through unexpected means. A sort of
Bridget Jones's Diary meets
All Creatures Great and Small,
Falling for a Farmer is one woman's true life story of her journey from wide-eyed townie to full-blown farmer's girlfriend. From pulling calves and wrapping bales, to being 'stood up for silage' and receiving the phone call that every farmer's loved ones dread, Maura McElhone's memoir chronicles the often humorous, sometimes sobering experiences that ensue when town and country collide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mercier Press
• Release date: Sep 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9781781176054

Book preview

Acknowledgements

‘It’s a funny feeling when a moment you’ve dreamed about is suddenly imminent.’

This quote comes later in the book and, though it’s used there under altogether different circumstances, as I write these acknowledgements the sentiment is very much the same because I know that, soon, my first book will be on the shelves of bookshops – something that’s thanks in no small part to the following people.

Mairead Lavery at Irish Country Living and the Irish Farmers Journal, who took a chance on an enthusiastic townie and gave me the column inches to share my story and find my voice. Mairead, your vote of confidence planted the seed for my blog, the first incarnation of Falling for a Farmer, which allowed me to connect with readers all over the world, including Ian Wilson, producer on RTÉ Radio 1’s CountryWide programme. Ian, thank you for allowing me to bring my anecdotes to a whole new audience.

Patrick O’Donoghue at Mercier Press, I apologise unreservedly for assuming that your initial expression of interest in the blog and its potential to give rise to a book was simply an elaborate wind-up. As if you’ve nothing better to be doing! While your message did indeed seem too good to be true, it was, in fact, genuine. And here we are now. Your positivity and optimism were infectious and gave me the momentum I needed to get this project across the line. To you and all the team at Mercier, thank you for your belief.

Time is arguably the most essential weapon in a writer’s arsenal, and perhaps the one in shortest supply. I am hugely grateful to Kildare County Council Arts Service for awarding me the Cecil Day Lewis Bursary Award for emerging writers in 2017, which allowed me the luxury of taking time off work to complete the first draft of Falling for a Farmer. Speaking of work, to my bosses at ‘the day job’, Paddy and Damien, your support, understanding and willingness to facilitate the time off I requested to pursue this dream has been invaluable.

To my Kildare family, whose warmth and generosity, support and encouragement knows no bounds. We’ve come a long way since that first Sunday dinner, and how fortunate I am to have such passionate and positive champions in my corner. I say that both as a writer and as the partner of one of your own. Thank you for everything.

To my parents, Paul and Eimear. Daddy, you instilled in me a love of stories from my earliest days when you read me the same book night after night, with the result that before I was old enough to read it, I could recite it. ‘The day began like any other day’ will be forever imprinted on both our memories. Mammy, you passed on the writing gene and showed me that while good things may come to those who wait, they may come sooner to those who work hard, persevere and commit to their goals wholeheartedly. Thank you both for encouraging me to do what I enjoy and for never stifling my imagination or my propensity to dream big.

To my brother and sister, Paul and Orla, who helped me hone my storytelling skills by acting, albeit unwittingly, as my primary audience through years of dinnertimes, Skype sessions and Sunday car journeys to Belfast dominated by my ramblings. In spite of this, you’ve been loyal and real-time champions in our siblings’ WhatsApp group, celebrating my every achievement along this road and encouraging me over pitfalls and obstacles. Thank you.

Finally, to my love. On the night that we first met, I told you I was a writer and that, one day, I hoped to write a book. Who knew then that day would come so soon, and that the book would be our book? You’ve shown me a way of life that has inspired me no end. In granting me the freedom to capture and share our experiences, you’ve given me a gift. For your constant support, unwavering belief, your patience and understanding during episodes of frustration, disappointment (and extreme ‘hanger’), I thank you. This book is a love letter, and here’s to our next chapter.

Foreword

It’s just over thirty years since I married and moved from my homeplace in County Wicklow to live on a farm in County Limerick. Soon after arriving in Shanagolden I needed to book my car into a local garage for a service. Now, the car loan was in my maiden name – Mairead Wolohan – as were the tax and insurance. So rather than book the car in under my strange new married name, I put it in for the service under my more familiar – at least to me – maiden name. So you can imagine my surprise when I got my bill all neatly enclosed in a little brown envelope and addressed to ‘Mrs Sean Lavery’.

I remember staring at that envelope and feeling that my sense of identity was gone, that Mairead Wolohan no longer existed. That now everything about me had been subsumed into a new extended family I barely knew. Even my Christian name was no longer mine. I was the missus of Sean Lavery. End of story.

When most young people marry nowadays, they set out on the journey through life together. They can forge a new identity for themselves and their own family. They are not hampered by the personality, frailties, successes or failures of the generations that went before. However, when ‘marrying into’ a farm you cannot escape this history. You are now one of them, warts and all.

Despite most women now being financially independent with their own careers, this fracturing of identity remains one of the greatest challenges facing those who ‘marry in’ to a farm. No doubt it’s easier if you come from a farming background or the next parish and you know the lay of the land. But God forbid if the heir to the farm was to set his cap at a ‘townie’. A woman who didn’t understand that weekends are a concept most farmers have never grasped. That nine-to-five doesn’t exist and work is over only when it’s all done. That there’s no weekly pay-packet and that you can be penalised a sizeable part of your income because of making a genuine mistake on the many forms that need filling in.

Of course Maura McElhone knew none of this when she started dating her farmer, Jack. And despite being a ‘townie’ she had one big advantage going for her. When living in the United States, try as she might, Maura couldn’t muster up sufficient enthusiasm to call the place home. She felt detached from her surroundings, an outsider looking in. Worse still, she found that living in the United States made her a visitor in the lives of those she cared about the most.

Maura was ready to put down roots and she knew she wanted to do this in the only place they would take root, and that was home. So at the age of thirty, with six years’ living in the United States behind her, she ‘unemigrated’ and returned to start a new life in Dublin.

Falling in love with a farmer wasn’t part of the plan but, you know, life happens when you least expect it and Maura’s description of those first dates will have you rooting for the fledgling romance. But stuff like heifers on the loose and silage season are hard to cope with, especially when you are in your glad rags and your date is hours late. It’s easy to offer the ‘silent treatment’ but, as Maura wisely acknowledges, ‘it’s a naive and foolish woman who would ask her farmer to choose between his lady and his land’.

Far from expecting Jack to fully integrate himself into her life, Maura threw herself into farm life. She was intrigued by the business end of lambing and calving and not afraid to get involved. Her account of attempting to help a ewe through a difficult lambing brings you to the heart of what farming is all about.

There’s an old saying that where there is livestock, there is deadstock and Maura’s account of an outbreak of BVD on the farm is another dose of the harsh reality that is farming life. She doesn’t just want to be there for the birth of cuddly lambs and cute calves, she also wants to be there for Jack on the hard days, the disappointing days that all farmers know only too well.

Seeing the seasons of the year on a farm through a pair of fresh eyes is part of the broad appeal of this book. Whether it’s lambing or calving, shearing or silage time, the support of neighbours or the connection to place that includes the GAA, Maura breathes it in. Her wonder at this way of life and the communities it supports re-envisages farming not just for ‘townies’ but for farmers themselves.

This is one ‘townie’ who will have no problem ‘marrying in’ and settling down to farming life – she’s made for it. Here’s wishing Maura and Jack every success and a long and happy life together.

Mairead Lavery

Part I

–

In Transit

1

14 February 2014. It was the morning of Valentine’s Day – a day for, depending on your relationship status, red roses, chocolates and gratuitous romance, or wallowing in self-pity. It was not traditionally a day for making permanent moves from one continent to another. It was not a day for ‘unemigrating’. And yet, here I was, doing just that. As the plane touched down at Belfast International, I pictured most of my family waiting for me in the arrivals area, ready with bear hugs and the mandatory, ‘How was the flight?’ Further up the road, Mammy would be busy in the kitchen, filling the kettle and setting the table for the greatly anticipated fry. It was a routine we’d gone through many times over the six years I’d been away. This time, though, would be different. This time, there would be no return journey to dread, no imminent partings casting a shadow over my precious time at home. Single, jobless and set to move back in with my parents at thirty years of age, I’d taken, at best, a huge risk in saying goodbye to my life in California. At worst, I’d made a huge mistake.

For as long as I could remember, I’d dreamed of living the American life. As a child I was a sucker for Disney movies and The Muppet Show. To me, the American accent was synonymous with fun, excitement and love. My teenage self was seduced by the scenery and exciting, if angst-laden, lives of characters in shows like Dawson’s Creek. Family holidays in Florida and Massachusetts only bolstered the notion that this was where I was meant to be. The older I got, the more I was dazzled by American sunshine and charmed by its beautiful people with their perfect teeth, suntans and go-get-’em attitude. At that time in my life, America and its people represented everything I was not. I suppose, on some level, I imagined that if I were to live there, I might, through sheer immersion, take on some of that confidence, that beauty, that glamour.

I got an opportunity to study in sun-drenched San Diego during my second year at university. I arrived in 2004, a twenty-year-old from Portstewart – a small seaside town on County Derry’s north coast – and as I watched my first Pacific sunset from the cliffs of La Jolla, silhouetted palm trees lining the gardens of the surrounding mansions, I was smitten. Reluctantly, I returned to Stirling, Scotland, in 2005, to finish my degree. Then there was a stint in 2008–09 in Galway, Ireland, where I completed my Masters. Those few years aside, I spent all of my twenties in California. I snowshoed in the Rockies, partied in Las Vegas, snorkelled off Hawaii, met movie stars in Los Angeles and kissed a cowboy in Kansas on the fourth of July.

Back in Ireland, life went on. One of my closest friends gave birth to her first baby, my godson. Another got married. My father turned sixty. My younger sister broke up with her first boyfriend and my younger brother found a new girlfriend. I followed the developments as best I could from 8,000 kilometres away. Although I made it home for a few important events, every visit involved a thirty-hour round trip and more dollars than I care to calculate. Living in the United States meant I was now a visitor in the lives of the people I cared about most.

I went to work, enjoyed weekend trips with my then-boyfriend and happy hours with the girls, bought groceries and got my US driving licence. I tried to imagine a future here: the all-American house with the minivan parked out front that I’d use to ferry my kids to after-school activities. But what about their cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents all living in Ireland? We’ll be starting a new family, my then-boyfriend would say. Maybe, I thought, but was that something I would even want to do without the support of my existing family?

I spent my final two years in America in the city of Novato, just north of the Golden Gate Bridge and about thirty minutes outside San Francisco. I worked for a magazine publishing company and lived in a beautiful apartment nestled into the Marin County hillside. I’d made a life for myself in America, but it never felt permanent. As clichéd as it might sound, the only time America felt remotely close to being ‘home’ was when I was in the company of other Irish people. I sought out the familiar in an effort to prove to myself that all those years dreaming about living in America, and all that money I’d spent on travel and visas to make it a reality, hadn’t been a waste. When I’d relocated from San Diego to the San Francisco Bay Area, it was a move largely motivated by the fact that the northern California city had a more prominent and active Irish community – something I’d hoped would help settle me. But try as I might, there was a part of me that simply could not accept America as ‘home’. Even after six years there, and as much as I enjoyed the lifestyle perks that only California can offer – San Diego’s close to perfect climate, the celebrity-spotting and excitement of LA, indulgent Saturdays spent sampling the wineries of Sonoma County – still, I felt detached from the place, an outsider looking in. I hoped that would change. There was a lot hinging on my ability to envision a future in California, not least the relationship I was in at the time.

I remember vividly, one Sunday afternoon, standing in the kitchen in the apartment in Novato. I was scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed and saw that a friend from home had gotten engaged. Along with the requisite beaming couple and close-up-of-the-ring photos, she had posted a status that proclaimed her to be ‘the happiest girl in the world’. It’s something that every newly engaged person says, and hopefully truly feels too, but while I was delighted for my friend, I also felt a sudden, heavy sadness. I realised at that moment that if my then-boyfriend were to propose, I would be unable to mirror my friend’s happiness – complete and unburdened as it was. In fact, the idea of a proposal filled me with dread. Not because of anything to do with him; I know he will be a wonderful husband to the right person. No, the idea of it lodged in my gut because I knew that if a proposal were to happen, I could not in good conscience say yes. While any talk about our future had, so far, been in a mostly hypothetical context, when the topic was broached it was assumed that ‘home’ would be America. Moving to Ireland as a couple was never mentioned. Nor did I bring it up. Perhaps I knew, deep down, that the futures we envisioned were more than incompatible; they were in conflict.

Eventually, the daily uncertainty about my future came to a head. We had the conversation, he and I, and it played out just as I knew it would. With me unable to commit to ‘forever’ in the US, and him unwilling to give Ireland a shot, the relationship ended.

Not long after the break-up, I turned thirty. It’s a milestone age for any woman, one which causes you to pause and take stock. I spent that birthday weekend with friends in San Diego, one of them a Galway man living in the US for the better part of twenty years. We played music, we sang and we drank. Inevitably, the conversation turned to Ireland and the enormity of a possible move back home. Yes, there was plenty I would be giving up, and I was under no illusion as to how hard it might be to get back on my feet in a country with an unemployment rate still above twelve per cent. But what I stood to gain outweighed all of that: I would no longer be a visitor in the lives of my family and friends; I could rekindle those relationships that I had come to realise were integral to my sense of belonging – the very thing I’d been missing in California all those years. I was ready to put down roots and I wanted to do that in the only place I knew they would take.

Another couple of months passed before I really set the wheels in motion, handing in my notice at work, moving out of my rented accommodation and selling my beloved ‘blueberry’ – my little blue VW Beetle that failed to start more times than not, but, as my first significant purchase in the US, was still an immense source of pride and for me, a symbol of accomplishment. Two months later I boarded my Belfast-bound flight, filled with a fierce resolve to make my ‘unemigration’ a positive move.

As the plane thundered to a stop on the tarmac, I peered out through that little circular window at the grey building of Belfast International Airport with the grey sky above it. A nervousness gripped me. This was it, the thing for which I’d longed for so long. No longer wishful thinking, or existent only in the form of an impassioned conversation had with other Irish emigrants over drinks in a pub that looked, smelled and sounded just like those that are so synonymous with the country we’d moved away from. This was real. I was home. Ready to rediscover and fall back in love with the country I’d left behind the better part of a decade ago.

2

When an emigrant makes the decision to return home, they’re warned to brace for change. The famous Yeats quote, ‘all changed, changed utterly’, comes to mind. And there is truth to it. Places change and so do people. Siblings grow up, friends marry and have children, some move away. People die. Whether you were