Denis Lehane: The silage that smelt of Roses

So, when I was taken back to the Rose of Tralee festival last weekend, you can imagine my dismay.

The Rose of Tralee Festival was the last place you'd expect to find me. I was like a fish out of water. I was like a duck on dry land. I fitted in like an overweight bullock fits into a Nissan Micra.

I belonged there about as much as a dirty Wellington boot belongs on a clean carpet. "And why were you there so, you big fool?" You might cry.

Well, if you must know, I was there to support the Perth Rose, Maria Collins.

It's a long story, but all you really need to know is that she's a West Cork girl who comes from a fantastic farming family based only a stone's throw from Coppeen.

Her family are great neighbours of mine as a matter of fact.

Needless to say, Maria carried out her duty as a Rose with far more glamour and style than I could ever possibly write about here. She was a radiant star and shone brightly.

Anyhow, as my day wore on, I eventually found myself having a pint with this old farmer from Annascaul

He told me a fascinating story about The Rose of Tralee, and it's a story I will share today, even though it was told to me in confidence. So keep all this under your hat.

Many years ago now, the farmer from Annascaul was attempting to cover his silage pit. "Attempting" is the keyword here.

A single man with a bad hip, he was on his own — the silage contractor had vamoosed to another farm.

With the wind picking up and the rain starting to come down, he was fighting a losing battle. He feared the worst — that he would be unable to cover his winter feed.

As if by magic, down the road came this glamorous-looking bus filled with beautiful Roses from all over the world.

The road on which they were travelling ran alongside the farm, so the Roses saw everything and were naturally overcome with emotion for the poor farmer.

The forlorn farmer didn't take much notice of the bus, or its occupants, and went on fighting with tyres and plastic. Well suddenly, didn't the bus stop and the doors swing open?

Puzzled and confused, the farmer shuffled off the pit, hobbled over to the bus, and explained his plight as best he could in Irish and in English.

"Oh how I wish to God I had some help," the farmer keened.

Well, the next thing, Roses were descending onto the farm from all quarters. Roses from Singapore to Cincinnati.

Roses in high heels and ball gowns, Roses with make-up and hair do's the likes of which the old farmer had never seen before.

With sleeves rolled up and scant regard for style or decorum, the Roses then got stuck in. They pulled out old tyres from ditches and hauled them across the yard.

They flung battered, old remoulds onto the pit like Olympic disc throwers

They pulled plastic across the silage pit like the devil himself.

The farmer thought he had died and gone to heaven. And nobody objected either, for they were heavy and full of water and silage runoff.

Afterwards, the farmer invited them all in for tea and a merry old time was had.

Ever since that day, the farmer from Annascaul has religiously travelled to Tralee for the festival. He travels there each year to show his support.

"They saved my bacon, they saved my fodder," he explained with great sincerity.

"My silage that winter was said to be the best in the parish, for it all came out smelling of Roses."