John Arnold: I miss milking and the herd... but I’m loving retirement too

After Mass of a Sunday, and at meetings and matches with the last two months, I’m being asked: “Well, John, what’s it like to be retired from farming?”

I smile and, as gently as I can, remind the enquirer that I’m not actually retired from the practise and the livelihood of farming - just that we don’t milk cows here in Garryantaggart anymore.

The general laugh then comes: “Sure, yerra, you never milked ’em much with the last 50 years anyhow” -a reference to the part my good wife has played since she ‘transferred’ from her home in Desert - the other side of this parish - four score and five years ago.

I’ll not deny the fact that she kept the home fires burning and without her by my side I couldn’t have taken on the ‘public’ role thrust on me many years ago.

I’ve often told people that I was never destined to be a farmer but fate, combined with worse than middling Leaving Cert results in 1974, combined to shape my future.

Just this week, the 1926 Census returns have been made available ‘on-line’, and in the first few days there have been 20 million ‘hits’ on the National Archives site.

In Kilcor South, Castlelyons parish, the name Mary Bridget Twomey is listed as being just 11 months old. Mam was born at home in May of 1925 - a century ago last year.

My grandparents met initially, apparently, by pure chance. John Twomey was helping the Leahys who were threshing at McCarthys of Ballinaskeha, Leamlara. Whilst in the haggard, my grandfather spotted Nora McCarthy and, according to family lore, he declared that very night: “Today I saw the girl I’m going to marry!”

In 1924, he did just that, and the following year Mam was born. Five more children were born to the couple - my treasured uncles and aunts.

In 1926, my grandfather recorded himself on the first ever Irish Free State Census as a ‘farmer’, 36 years and 11 months of age - he was also an employee of the Department of Agriculture - up until his death in 1943.

Mam and Dada also had a slightly ‘unorthodox’ introduction. In early 1950, an aunt of my father’s was dying and he was asked to ‘stay up’ by her bedside one night.A relative of my grand-aunt was herself a first cousin of my Twomey grandmother. So she ‘suggested’ that Mam should do ‘her duty’ by the bedside on the same night my father was there. Love blossomed and they were married two years later.

Mam ran the farm on her own after Dada’s death in 1961.

To be honest, in 1974 farming wasn’t high on my list of occupations. Did I want to be a writer, a politician, a historian – or even a World Book Encyclopaedia salesman? Not sure really, but with just one Leaving Cert. Honour (in Irish) and unable to add, subtract, multiply or divide, my future options were limited enough!

Mam suggested that I ‘stay at home (farming) ’til Christmas, and sure we’ll see after that’ - well, Christmas never came!

The song says ‘Regrets, I’ve had a few but then too few to mention’, and in reality I was more of a Doris Day fan, ‘Que sera, sera - whatever will be, will be, que sera, sera’ - and God knows that philosophy has stood me in good stead for over half a century.

Yes, occasionally I do ponder and wonder what might have happened if bank interest rates hadn’t reached over 20% in the early 1980s. We had great plans for expansion then but borrowed money had to be repaid one way or another, and what’s that they say about ‘the best laid plans of mice and men’?

No point in crying over spilt milk!

Talking of milk, that’s one of life’s pleasures I really do miss since the cows went. From now on, when the cows were in full milk each morning, I used to enjoy a pure pleasure that cannot be enjoyed anywhere else.

When the first eight cows were milking, I’d pop down to the kitchen and return to the milking parlour with a half-full mug of steaming black coffee. Then I’d squirt the fresh hot creamy milk straight from the cow into the mug.

Leave me alone about your cappuccinos or lattes or frappuccinos -this was a treat beyond description, pure indulgence!

Of course, I miss the monthly creamery cheque too, but then again the old age pension comes every week - hail, rain or shine!

This time of year is when we would normally be leaving the young calves out in the field for the first time. Since birth, for the first eight to ten weeks, the calves drank milk, and ate hay and calf ration. Now they would enjoy the great, glorious outdoors for the first time, and after smelling and licking it, they’d eventually come to realise grass is nice to eat!

They’d run and play and frolic, galloping over and back across the field, enjoying this great freedom.

Another thing I know I’ll miss is walking through the herd of cows at dusk on summer’s evenings.

I hate it when people refer to cows and other stock as ‘dumb animals’. True, they can’t talk, but they have their own special way of expressing their emotions. Hungry, cold and sick cows show those sadnesses in their eyes. Similarly, on a grand warm summer’s evening in May or June, when the cows are out a few hours after milking, the satisfaction and contentment they are experiencing is so obvious.

I often walked through them - many lying down - you’d think they were holding their breath, then a kind of inner belch, and off they’d go again, chewing the cud.

I always believed that well-treated cows were happy cows, and such cows were so docile and content and loved supplying their white liquid gold.

I notice that since the cows went, I go to the local creamery in Castlelyons less often. Founded in 1917 - my grandfather John Twomey played a major role in the early days - with cows and calves, there would be no week pass without a few trips to the creamery for this and that - maybe a water connection, a dose, a bag of ration or new bucket.

The local creamery was always a great gathering place for ‘news’ and meeting neighbours.

Dave Ryan brought our churns of milk here daily until his sudden death in the spring of 1973. We then had a ‘plastic tank’ for a few years until the refrigerated bulk tank came in.

Ah yes, lots of changes in the past 50 years or so.

Am I happy or sad not to be milking cows now?

A hard question to answer, but no point in looking over my shoulder at the ‘might have beens’.

We still have cattle here on the farm and look forward to growing more and more grass - hay and silage are always wanted.

I must say the greatest positive I have found is the freedom to come and go and not be tied by two milking times each day.

We loved farming, especially farming with nature, and hopefully that won’t change.

Yes, its quieter now with no lowing herd winding slowly o’er the lea, but we have so much more time for family and friends.