English hay: A slice of upper crust in my round feeder

It was a snob of a bale, to be perfectly honest with you.

A bale that was probably produced on the farm of Prince Charles himself.

A bale more suited to an English squire rather a humble west Cork farmer.

I purchased just one bale, for I figured one was all I needed to see me through this arse-end of a winter.

Anyhow, I felt from the moment I laid eyes on the bale that it was a fussy class of a thing.

If a bale could ever wear a monocle, this was it. A hoity-toity looking bale.

A round bale that stood out from the crowd, like a toff with a top hat. A bale that certainly had no business in the back of my Hilux.

I said nothing, of course, at the co-op, for I felt it would be bad manners to complain about the English bale of hay, and it having come all the way from England.

Anyhow, I drove on home. And if truth be told, looking back on it now, it did seem to sit there, with a very remote, removed and reserved air.

A superior class of a bale, if ever I saw one.

I got home and into the yard, and up the slope I drove at speed.

The aim here would be for the bale to roll out the back, thus saving me time and trouble. It’s a clever move of mine that mostly works.

However, this time it did not, and it didn’t surprise me in the least. For my English bale was as stubborn as Winston Churchill himself.

Not an inch would it give.

It was an obstinate John Bull of a bale, that in a way you’d have to admire.

It took a good few pucks of the spike before I managed to offload the devil and, just to keep on the right side of the bale, I placed it on a nice dry patch of ground.

I could see that it was far from impressed with my yard and other things about the place.

I was ashamed, really, but on I went, for the cattle needed feeding.

I hoisted the English bale into my round feeder, and again, I got the distinct impression that the bale was far from impressed with the motley crew of cattle that began to huddle round.

Most likely expecting to see well-bred Herefords.

But worse again, for me, my cattle didn’t seem to be too impressed with my English bale either — they cocked their noses up at the thing.

The bale, you see, was probably above their station in life.

Similar to offering caviar to the likes of you or me, and we only used to biscuits and fish fingers.

It reminded me of your one out in France who used to say “let them eat cake” before her head came off.

Anyhow ’twas only then I remembered that I had two old round bales of silage from a few years back pushed in by an old ditch.

As quick as be dammed, I fetched the bales and opening them for the stock, and they dug into them, like you or I would to a hearty meal.

They were much fonder of the three-year-old Irish silage, than the upper crust English hay.

I removed the hay bale, and placed it into in a shed where it will remain for the foreseeable future.

So, long after the Brits have left the EU, a little bit of England could still be stationed here in West Cork.