They were polishing cattle in Tullamore this weekend for one of the busiest national livestock shows on record – and the sun shone too. Who wouldn't want to take a trip to the country, asks KATHY SHERIDAN
HEAT, SUN, strappy tops, shirt sleeves! In Tullamore! The weather gods that washed out the national livestock show in 2007 and 2008 reviewed their brattish behaviour in 2010.
Good news for sales of old-fashioned 99s, bad news for Teresa Fogarty, who left Tubber, Co Clare at 2.30am towing Queenie, Blossom, Pop and Sandra, Belgian Blue cattle of various stature. By the clammy heat of mid-afternoon, Teresa looked in serious need of a nap. Stocky little Pop was looking none too lively either, despite the €5,000 price Teresa reckoned he’d fetch at the sales in Carrick-on-Shannon come November.
Meanwhile Queenie, Blossom and Pop were being massaged by Michael, Teresa’s husband, first with white Charolais soap, then lovingly doused with Tesco baby powder, after which every hair is fluffed up to perfection. Particular attention is paid to the tail which is gently back-combed to create a little explosion of hair at the end.
There is special black soap for Sandra (because she’s black), which imparts a sleek ebony sheen. Jim Shanley from Ballacolla, Co Laois – up since 5am to milk the cows – gallantly (or cavalierly) offered a similar, cheap dye job to this reporter, which was declined. The fact that everyone was standing a good foot clear of Sandra was no advertisement for Jim’s dye jobs.
Meanwhile, Gavin Hickey from Kildare town, unveiled the reason behind the tiny buckets of hay that come permanently attached to handlers: it’s for holding under the bums of animals who lift their tails with a view to – um – spoiling that pristine rear view before the judging.
Further up, in the Holstein Friesian pens, Setanta Gaynor flops down wearily beside a big calf, announcing that he’s “just sitting down for a chat with these lads”. His father Paul finds this hilarious, mainly because Setanta is four and the “lads” (9- and 10-year-old Kevin and Brian Smith, from Doneraile, Co Cork) are total strangers.
“You’d wonder what the chat’s about,” says Paul. Nama? The Russian wheat harvest? It could be the hurley that Kevin’s just bought for €12. Ask them for their favourite part of the show and the Smith boys answer in unison: “The cattle”.
It’s a huge part of the charm of Tullamore, this absence of youthful lethargy, the deep connection with the natural world and the obvious bond of understanding between the generations. As Enda Egan from Kilcormac, Co Offaly, anxiously watches his two young sons and his nephew, Kieran Costello, dressed to impress in white shirts and ties, manoeuvre, cajole, push and pull Broughall Fancy That, a Limousin calf, into the judging ring, it’s a sight to remember. It took the three of them to keep him moving. Why does he bother? “If he wins, it helps the image of your herd,” says Enda.
Back at the heavily AIB-branded main stage, a slew of politicians is lining up to watch the “local Taoiseach” – as described by show secretary, Freda Kinnarney – knock the wind from Brendan Smith’s sails, by snipping the big AIB-branded ribbon.
Stage left is the relaxed opposition, Charlie Flanagan and Andrew Doyle in open-necked shirts and Mairéad McGuinness, looking smart and demob happy since she’s en route to holidays in Achill; stage right are Brian Cowen and Brendan Smith, heroically wearing ties in the heat.
Brian Cowen’s unprovocative speech attracts the attention of a tattooed, ponytailed, rollie-smoking gent who makes a point of clapping long, loud and ironically, until a burly man lopes over to whisper in his ear.
Churchmen from the Catholic and Church of Ireland persuasions are there to render prayers of thanks for the weather and the wonder of God’s creations.
As they step off the stage Donal Milne of Óg skincare is delivering a sales spiel to McGuinness. “What do you think Taoiseach? Will it be any good?” asks Mairéad. “Everything helps, Mairéad, everything helps. . .” he says moving on – until he suddenly realises that that could sound negative in black and white.
“I mean in general, in GENERAL, everything helps. . .” he explains helplessly, “nothing personal, I mean.”
“I’d send the lot of them over to the birds to be pecked senseless,” says a cattle woman grimly.
He would have been pleased at a glimpse of “a little bit of the green shoots” that Colm Quinn was seeing among the gleaming BMWs in his popular car sales tent. He swears that by 2.30pm, he had sold three diesel 520s, costing a mean €42,000–€48,000 a piece; after going out on his own in February 2008, he now employs 28 and says business is on the up.
Away from Colm, an extraordinary array of items is being proudly taken away. Bubble guns. Air guns. The World’s Sharpest Knife. Angel wings. Walking sticks, Twist mops. Crazy string. Hair and horn feed supplement. Fluke remedies. And um, Fine Gael mugs: “Don’t be a Mug – vote Fine Gael,” says the slogan. There are jokes that could be made but Charlie Flanagan gets there first, observing The Irish Times observing the charming picture of Enda and Lucinda raising cups of tea in cheery celebration, surrounded by Ogra types. It’s probably a collectors’ item, we suggest?
“I think it’s a first edition,” says Charlie carefully.
BACK AT THE STAGE, the best-dressed woman – her prize a €500 voucher – is being chosen in a breezy fashion, with spouses shouting encouragement and little lads waving 7-Up cans at their glamorous mothers, who include bookies, horse breeders and greyhound trainers.
The winner is Geraldine Walsh in gold-coloured stratospheric heels, who admits that earlier, she felt like a “sore thumb” in the huge crowd of casually dressed folk. But no-one is complaining. For one day only, the livin’ is easy; there are stunned-looking alpacas and vintage cars, and show-jumping, fairytale coaches pulled by four plumed horses, and fantastically-entertaining dogs chasing around after sheep.
A perfect summer’s day in the country.
