Farmers Fate

It was after midnight as my husband and I each drove a tractor and baler back home. It had been a long day, and neither of us had eaten since breakfast. Throwing some potato wedges in the air-fryer, we both begin catching up on emails in silence. Suddenly my husband exclaimed, “I found tickets to Ireland for $420. You wanna go?” It may have been the sleep deprivation, or the hunger pains. But we purchased 4 tickets to Ireland on the spot. Right in the middle of fall harvest, we packed our bags and jetted off to The Emerald Isle. We rented a lime green car we named the Lucky Leprechaun and we set off on an adventure like we have never before experienced. First thing, we had to get used to driving on the right side of the car and the left side of the road. Surprisingly, that part wasn't as bad as we were expecting. What was really trippy though, was shifting with your left hand. Even while your head is saying “left hand, left hand,” the second your foot presses in on the clutch, your right hand would dart out and hit the window. No amount of reading stories or guidebooks will ever prepare a person for the real experience. The roads were so narrow, the speed limits so high, and the only thing more prevalent than the sheep on the roads, were the the tractors pulling trailers. Our second day, we visited what we all decided was our favorite ruin. We don't know what the name is—but we dubbed it “Holstein Castle.” It was in the middle of a cow pasture. There were wooden steps that had been built to climb over the electric fences. Once inside the fence, we dodged cows as we walked to a glorious old ruin. There were cows rubbing on the outside of the monastery's limestone walls—and there lots of cow-pie evidence that they enjoyed the inside also. Apparently the luck of the Irish is bestowed upon their livestock as well. No one can accuse them of being born in a barn—no sir. Royalty they are. Born and raised in glorious abby's, monasteries and castles! No trip to Ireland would be complete without kissing the Blarney stone. I've been dreaming about that since I was a little girl. When I dreamed of it though, I imagined it as a rock sitting solidly on the ground. I took one look at the height of Blarney castle, and suddenly, having the “gift of gab,” seemed like a distant little girl fantasy. We wandered around the poison gardens, the druid circle, the underground cave system from which many royalty escaped during sieges—everywhere but the castle. “Are we ever going to go to the main attraction?” my husband queried. I smiled and pretended I hadn't even noticed we hadn't made it there yet. I lingered around the main rooms in the bottom, taking extraordinary interest in every tunnel and doorway. Too soon though, we were on the staircase winding up towards the top of the castle. It was solid stone, with only slits in the side for light. I didn't notice how high we were getting, but I did notice the width getting narrower. By the time my shoulders started to brush the sides, I found myself at the top. Sweat trickled down the sides of my cheeks—and not from heat. We were the only people on the top of the castle, save for the two men employed to help guests kiss the Blarney stone. Again my little girl dream turned nightmarish, as I realized for the first time just how one kisses the stone. My husband went first. He laid on his back, held on to 2 bars, and slid over the side of the castle to kiss the stone upside down. Nope, uh huh, not happening. That dream just burst in a cloud of fear. We stood on Farmer’s Fate the top of that castle while I s w e a t e d bullets for 10 minutes, w h i l e m y husband told me how much I'd regret not sliding back- wards over that castle wall at least 100 stories in the air to what would be sure death. He finally convinced me to try the kiss of death. I was shocked to discover that I'd lived through it. That's when my 8 year old said “I wanna do it too!” Still shaking from my own near brush from death, I quickly said “Oh honey, you're too little.” Turning to the 2 men, I said quickly, “he's much to little, isn't he?” I gasped when they said “Oh he's plenty tall enough, we'll just hold his legs.” If I thought I had sweat for my own kiss, it was nothing like watching my 8 year old dangling over the castle edge. It was the first time in my life, I was so scared I forgot about taking pictures. Climbing back down the staircase, I was thankful it was so narrow...just to keep my weak knees underneath of me. A few nights later we were sitting in pajamas in front of a gorgeous castle fireplace that had belonged to some of Churchill's “poor relations.” With our feet tucked underneath of us, reading in the firelight, it was a moment I'll treasure my entire life. That next morning, we were eating in the castles dining hall. Velvet brocade on the walls, crystal chandeliers, real silver utensils—it was like living a scene from Downton Abbey. After the butler had taken our breakfast order, our sons stepped away to check out the “continental breakfast” on the sideboard. That's when we had a pride goes before destruction moment. “What a great experience this is for the boys,” we said to each other. “The history, the education, the...” We had to stop right there, as our oldest slipped back into his chair with a plate of cereal. “All this wonderful education and our kids don't know what dish to pour cereal into?” I bemoaned, while my teenager just shrugged, “TSA confiscated the only utensil I really know how to eat with.”