‘The Ploughing’ is a celebration of all that is good in farming and agriculture
Championships Day Of The Ploughing On Linehan Dan Large At Laois Ratheniska, The Crowd Picture: The Third National Co
As the curtain fell on the 2024 iteration of the National Ploughing Championships on Thursday evening, it did so under the feather weight of an asterisk. A qualifier that will separate this year's edition from most that came before it.
Often, such a symbol denotes something negative or unproven, like Lance Armstrong’s Tour de France victories, but the asterisk above this year's championship is nothing of the sort. It will only serve to remind what an anomalous occasion this turned out to be.
There was no ankle deep mud. No sideways rain. No umbrellas converted into projectiles. This was a festival of all that is good in farming and agriculture in Ireland. Indeed, it was more a celebration than a festival.
The gods — so cruel to farmers so often — made sure of that. Over 150,000 people descended on a field in Ratheniska, Co Laois, for what is widely regarded as the largest outdoor trade fair in Europe.
You can take all your cliches about flasks of tea and ham sandwiches, and yes, they would of course apply, but the NPA is no subterranean celebration of some kitsch sub-culture; instead, it is a totem of a thriving rural Ireland.
“We were up at 5am this morning,” says Hazel Sheridan from Lahardane, a village under the shadow of Nephin in county Mayo, her children John (10) and Eva (9), red-faced from the sun, just about keeping up. “It’s been a long day, but well worth it.”
Such dedication to attendance was ubiquitous in Ratheniska, tens of thousands of cars cutting through the early morning fog, hopeful — as farmers perpetually are — that the weather would hold.
While the organisers of the NPA have no control over meteorology, they do over logistics, and along with An Garda Siochana, for that they deserve unqualified praise. I saw my first Garda at the N4 exit for Tullamore, some 80 kilometers from the venue.
By the time I parked my car, ably corralled into place by an abundance of well-wishing volunteers, I couldn't help thinking that the National Ploughing Association should organise everything in Ireland.
Had the ill-fated Fyre Festival — which went up with gust of wind in 2017 — employed Anna May McHugh to direct their operations, they’d be the world's premiere destination music festival, not a byword for disaster.
Even as I parked my car, my concern as to how I would ever find it again amongst the myriad of fields was assuaged by a mind-reading volunteer; “use the white house at your 6 o'clock on the hilltop as a reference point. You can’t go wrong”.
And it was in that can-do vein the day continued. Despite being a son of the soil, this was my first visit to the championships, so while I was aware of the importance of the event, nothing can prepare a novice for the popularity or the scale.
The site, immaculately prepared on the greenest of green-field sites, is less a festival village than an agricultural city. Some 600 stands and marquees and tents across six blocks and 20-odd rows from a range of businesses and organisations so broad and varied it would make your head spin.
I was ready for the farm plant and machinery, the cattle crushers and the sheep shearers, I was much less prepared for the Presbyterian Church of Ireland stand and the Gospel Literature of Ireland tent.
There was something for everybody. Literally. Laid out in a grid system like Manhattan, it is no less impressive than the Big Apple, and a triumph of urban planning. An Bord Planala, take note.
“I wasn’t ready for this,” John Howland from Massachusetts told me, and, given he was wearing wellies and a wax jacket, his statement was both a confession and gross understatement.
Perched on the wheel of a vintage Massie Ferguson, I initially wasn’t sure whether he was a prop, or just taking solitary refuge from the 23 degree heat.
“I’ve no idea where they’re gone,” he admitted, referring to his hosts. I offered him my phone to call his wife, which he did.
“Take your time, I’m not going anywhere,” he told her, resuming his perch. It was that kind of day.
A bit like a visit to an all-you-can-eat buffet, the problem with an event like the Ploughing is knowing how to best use your time. Thankfully, there’s a master of ceremonies on hand to alert attendees as to what’s starting, when.
My worst nightmare was the Cecilia Holman Lee fashion show clashing with the welly throwing competition. Thankfully, the organisers are not sadists, so I could do both, but as ever on occasions such as this, it’s around the margins that the magic happens.
At about the furthest point from the entrance I walked in was a stand dedicated to the Certified Irish Angus Schools Competition, which challenges students to rear five Irish Angus calves over 18 months while completing a research project.
According to Certified Irish Angus, the competition aims to “promote the Certified Irish Angus brand while educating students about the care and attention required to produce quality beef for consumers.”
Read cold on a page that all sounds a little too agri-centric to me, but to stand there in the presence of the finalists — all fifth year students from different secondary schools around the country — was a life-affirming experience. These teenagers spoke about agriculture and farming like others might about art or literature.
“I’ve been coming to the ploughing all my life,” says Grace Warren, who, along with her friend and classmate Hollie-Mae Power Sinnot from FCJ secondary school in Bunclody, made up one of the five finalists.
“There’s a picture taken of me way back in 2012 when I was only five here. So, to be back again, winning five calves for the school, it’s really special and exciting.”
They’re not kidding. The two girls have enjoyed celebrity status around Bunclody since news broke.
“We began this project at the start of Transition Year when we submitted a video about our project,” Sinnot explains.
“There were initially 150 groups, and after a series of interviews and eliminations we got to the final five.
“I’m from a sheep farm, and Hollie-Mae is from beef and tillage. We’ve been on farms all our lives.”
As an only child in a farming family, Grace is adamant farming remains a huge part of her life after school. The same goes for Hollie-Mae.
“Our parents are very proud of us. Everybody is very proud of us. The whole school was here yesterday.”
The girls only took possession of the lucky pair of calves the previous day and will continue rearing them for a year until they go to the factory.
“To do what?” I ask, betraying my naivety.
“To become burgers,” they reply in unison. “We’ve been on farms all our lives,” Hollie-Me reassures me matter-of-factly, “we know how it ends.”
While the girls are clearly basking in their sudden celebrity, both are kind and mature enough to credit their agricultural science teacher, Stephanie O’Dwyer, with inspiring them to enter in the first place. Her enthusiasm is as infectious as the students.
“When I began teaching Ag Science it was an external subject. Now we have two full classes in FCJ of 25, 26 students. More and more girls are doing it, and not just from traditional farming backgrounds. They are increasingly doing better than the boys in the subject, too.”
The girls project, titled 'Positioning Ireland as a Global Leader in Sustainable Beef Production' is an impressive presentation that includes contributions from female researchers and experts from countries such as New Zealand, Iran, Canada and South Korea.
Never did I think such a topic would hold my attention, but such is the passion with which all the students from all the schools present, I leave the stand determined to better educate myself all things beef. The first step on that journey is to immediately buy an Angus burger and a bottle of club orange, sit on the dry grass, and watch people.
Fed and watered, I go in search of some glamour. I follow a crowd towards a stand that has some sheep in one pen, and a table full of merchandise alongside it.
Glyn Egan is a hill sheep farmer from Kerry who has a YouTube channel “The Sheep Shepard” which boasts 19,000 subscribers. I ask him for a couple of words, but he politely declines.
“I’ve no time,” he says, and I believe him. As his father man-handles a ram in the pen, Glyn moves to his merch table which has a crowd gathered, five deep. I’d never heard of The Sheep Shepard before, but I quickly realise I’m watching Mr Beast in overalls.
His T-shirts are selling like prize ewes. Tellingly, Egan is young and full of energy, indicative of the demographic that made up the majority of the attendance. I thought farming was the preserve of the old and world weary. A dying way of life.
On Wednesday in glorious sunshine, it was owned by the youth.
Like every national event, the political parties had their tents. RTÉ and various government departments, too. But, notwithstanding the fleeting presence of An Taoisigh and Tánaiste, the odd celebrity and a plethora of GAA hall-of-famers, this was a gathering as democratic as it was diverse.
Schoolkids in hijabs and county colours. Young lads in wellies and shorts, handling bales of hay like veteran farmhands from a Steinbeck novel. And John Howland from Boston, overdressed and overwhelmed, enjoying the peace of his temporary, sweaty isolation.
Somewhere, off in the middle distance, there was even some ploughing going on. It was an incredible sight, and an even better atmosphere. No tension.
No undercurrent of violence that can often permeate mass-audience events and, despite the ubiquity of people selling their wares, no pressure on anyone to buy anything. Everyone seemed happy, save for the welly salesmen, and even they could content themselves with a 99.
What is rare, is indeed very, very wonderful.