Grateful to live among Roscommon’s fields of gold

After a difficult day I decided to take a trip to Mote Park outside Roscommon Town to have a good walk, clear my head and reset the batteries.

As I got the steps in, I was stopped in my tracks (not for the first time) by that huge open field with the towering lonesome tree in its centre, which is adjacent to the Lion’s Gate. For those who haven’t visited Mote Park, this field and tree reminds me of the symbol of hope which was the great Oak tree visited at the end of the film The Shawshank Redemption. For me, it really is a picture-perfect scene which we are lucky to have on our doorstep.

A tractor was mowing the long green grass surrounding this towering tree in preparation for silage, which filled the summer air with that unique freshly cut grass scent, which is exclusive to the season. I couldn’t help but take time to look as green fields got their summer haircut and were transformed into fields of gold for a brief period. As I “wallowed in the habitual” breathing in and celebrating our natural surroundings in delight at taking things slowly, it took me back to my childhood when the silage season arrived for our neighbours in Boho.

The sound of a passing fleet of tractors and machinery tearing down our by-road very early in the morning acted as my alarm clock. I rushed to get dressed and devour the cornflakes before I got on my BMX peddling like the hammers trying to follow the convoy down the road. 

When I reached the fleet in the field I gazed at all the huge machines towering in front of me as they formed a line to get ready to turn green fields to golden gardens. I stood lingering in the background in hope one of the drivers’ “drawing in” would take sympathy on me and offer a spin. Thankfully, I eventually got the nod and climbed up into the towering tractor searching to see if there was some kind of a seat or foam to sit on. We navigated next to the harvester through the fields as freshly cut grass filled the trailer and was transported back to the be tipped off and quickly met with a buck-rake, which shoved all with force onto the pit. 

The process continued at pace until all were summonsed for the spuds. Our neighbour Kitty Burke never left me out of the pot and to this day I still haven’t tasted potatoes as floury, fresh or nice as those she offered up on silage days. It was easily known they were grown only about 20 yards away from where they were served on the table, complemented by  lashings of butter and pepper as hard grafting men made light work of the huge plates in front of them before they prepared for the night shift. 

With full bellies the work resumed until every blade of green grass was settling on the pit and the convoy of machinery moved on to their next haircut with lights now guiding their way into the night. Polythene, molasses and tyres now replaced the glamorous fleet as the black covers were drawn over the day’s work and feed was ensured for the winter.

Waking up in the summer mornings and looking out the top windows of our home the process continued from field to field until all of Ballintubber was a sea of gold.

In the words of Sting - “Many years have passed since those summer days, when we walked in fields of gold” but my recent trip to Mote Park reset my batteries and I walked out very grateful that I still live among Roscommon’s fields of gold.