We had a hay harvest, this year!!! Eight fucking bales on the acre outside my gate! Round bales FTW! I literally stood there, leaning on the gate and watched as, in under ten fucking minutes, a tractor whizzed round, sucking the ground clean and spewing out eight bails!
Fucking brilliant! Going for square ones would have got 180. That's One Hundred and Eighty Times we'd have to drag the fucking things aside, to allow the baler room.
As the square baler towing tractor circles the meadow, it basically pops out bales directly onto where it'll need to drive on its next circuit. This means ye need a team of hearty lads to drag or chuck the fuckers out of his path.
Hundred and eighty times we'd then need to lug them to spots all over the meadow. Lift and load 180 poxy fucking bales into exact stacks, seven foot high! Then, pull 180 vile, evil, soul destroying fucking stacked bales apart and load them onto a trailer.
Drive them down to my stable and guess what we'd have to do?! Sychronised mate dodging, as we weave in out of the stable door, 180 fucking times! Hoisting them right above our heads! To jam them in to the roof!
No. Fuck No! I sucked my gums as the roundies shot out. Tomorrow, two tractors will come and 'fork lift' them. Rush them off to store. Two guys. Four trips. Shit ton of gorgeous, lovely, secured for the horses fucking hay! All dropped off into the back of one of Pat's sheds!
When the horses come back? Pat will bring one. I'll open the gates to my newly concreted pen. Pat drives his shiney, new, red Massey Fergusson in. Backs the forks into my one round bale hay shed and off he goes!
Fuck long, sweltering days of extreme labour! Half the young bucks of the surrounding neighbourhood swarming and sweating on the meadow for most of a day, handling those poxy little (Actually, neither so little Or fucking Light!) square fuckers I used to think were so handy!
Stand and watch that tractor for ten minutes. Come in for a cuppa tea and get on with me life! Fucking Sorted!!!
I don't know what else happened, differently, this year either? But, Pat used to be dragging me out there, for a couple of Long evenings. To manually fluff up the vile, labour intensive shit with a pitch fork?
Clags (Horse Flies) feasting on ye! Ye nights and days an Agony of ripping off ye own skin!
This time? I vaguely recall Pat ringing me, asking me to strip off the tape, from this end of the meadow. Because he had a man coming to cut the HAY! What; Under a week later? I haven't lifted another finger. And there's eight bales out there!
What? Bit over board? Can't see what the fuss is about? Listen: We haven't Had a fucking Hay Harvest in probably three or five years, now.
Hoping and praying ye can grab enough of the limited supply of inflated priced stuff, coming up from the Deep South? Year after year?
Or actually be faced with the Very real possibility of having to Shoot ye fucking horses, because there's simply no hay available, for love or money? Believe me! That shit focuses the fucking mind!
This shit Blows the mind!!!
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