Spancelled: “To those who thole a life spancelled with cows.”

‘Spancel, An animal fetter, esp one used to hobble a cow during milking.’ OED.

It may seem an unusual thing to do, commissioning a life-sized sculpture of a man and cow to stand at the gateway to a modern Dairy.

But when you think about it, for a man whose life has been devoted to working with cows as a farmer, and later as a Dairy owner and businessman, Eamon Cunningham’s idea for a sculpture of a man and cow entitled ‘Spancelled’ at the entrance to the family dairy makes perfect sense.

For Eamon, it is the most natural thing in the world, to mark and to celebrate in a unique way, what he considers to be one of the most important symbiotic relationships in Irish life.

The Cunningham family have been involved in dairy farming in Omagh for around 160 years. And, as a market town with a rural hinterland, Omagh has itself had an integral relationship with livestock, dairy and beef farming, the animal feed industry, tanning and the country markets.

Eamon’s father and grandfather were integral to that, involved in everything from tanning animal hides to supplying milk. Eamon himself ran the family dairy for years, and spent his time as Patrick Kavanagh memorably described it ‘outside in the cow house. . . made the music of milking’.

Eamon says: ‘I have been lucky to earn a living from farming and from the Dairy. The dairy farming has been taken over by [my son] Cormac.’

He laughingly admits he didn’t necessarily take to dairy farming naturally saying:

“If I had a fractious enough relationship with cows, Cormac is a natural with the animals. Looking after them, giving them fodder, calving, milking. You should watch him. Marvellous.”

It reminded me of Ted Hughes description of cows ‘Cantankerous at the hay’. In almost a single breath Eamon moves from his own experiences, to what he describes as the symbiotic link between man and cow. It is that instinctive expression and appreciation of knowing that man and cow have always co–existed side by side that led him to commission a sculpture by the well-known artist John Behan.

It is easy to infer that the man in the sculpture is Eamon, but it isn’t – it represents every farmer that ever worked with cows. It is says Eamon a celebration of that and something that he hopes may make people stop for a moment and think.

Eamon followed in the footsteps of his brother Pauric in re establishing the Strathroy Dairy in 1972 in part to provide employment at a time when it was needed in Omagh and in part because it was the natural and obvious thing to do for a dairy farmer whose family had an established name in the Dairy industry in Omagh and West Tyrone.

It is now one of the best-known dairy businesses in the Island of Ireland.

And the alpha and omega of that industry, of dairy life and of the farm in Strathroy is man and cow, cow and man. Spancelled.

Footnote:

The dedication: ‘To those who thole a life spancelled with cows.’

http://youtu.be/X8QGWBLTGrk

http://youtu.be/X8QGWBLTGrk
A while back I extended the wireless network in the house/office so that we could get access anywhere. I also hoped that by boosting the wireless coverage my mother might be able to piggyback from her house a few doors up. To achieve that I think I’d need a industrial strength transmitter.

One of the advantages of this new network coverage is that I can hook up Airplay devices through the house, pumping music from room to room. I also now can sit out in the back garden on one of the many balmy summer’s days we have and do some work.

And so today that was possible. I read a bit. Wrote a couple of draft pieces for a client. Had a telephone call to make. Twas hard to beat really. A cup of coffee, sitting back in the sun. Until. . .

On Friday last Angela brought home from school a couple of pet rabbits called Beano and Dandy. Beano so called because he’s an albino, a furry wee white critter. Dandy named presumably because you can’t have a comic without a straight man, and in the case of these two comedians Dandy is the joker. He certainly made a fool out of me. The children love them of course and its hard not to be enchanted when they bunny hop hither and thither about their wee stockade. Until. . .

So there I am working the outdoor life when I catch a glimpse of the corner of my eye of the lad Dandy merrily skipping rabbitly across the garden. Born free, Maze escaper, Houdini fan, whatever. Off he went hoppity hop, stopping here and there for a quick much of grass, a taste of dandelion, a soupcon of daisy. . . The wee bollix I thought.

We’ve two guinea pigs that routinely make a run for it when they get the chance outside but we’re wise to them. Dandy to be fair saw his chance and legged it.

I passed the next 45 minutes trying to lure the pesky varmint back into custody with a carrot (what else, c’mon we’ve all seen Bugs Bunny). Dandy looked at me munching a carrot: ‘What’s Up Doc?’ he said before skipping back under the hedge eluding my grasp once again. Then, off he went and hid under the garden shed, appearing round one side as I looked under the other.

By this stage the humour was off me. To lose one rabbit would be unfortunate, unforgiveable. How would I explain myself. So, I brought over the chair, and the iPad and settled down in front of the shed for the long haul. Either he surrendered or hopefully the kids would come back.

Within a short while Sorcha arrived skippily around the side of the house. Our own Dr Doolittle. I swear she can talk to the animals. Within three minutes with the help of Peter they had Dandy back behind bars.

I can see where Warner Brothers got the inspiration. Not for the faint hearted this working outdoors. It’s a jungle out there in business these days, and you never know what you might come up against.

That’s all folks.

Just now I was sitting working when a mobile butcher’s shop pulled up outside my house. The driver sauntered over to the house and hit me with his rehearsed speech.

He travels round neighbourhoods from as far away as Ballymena and Ballycastle selling fresh meat. He used to have a butcher’s shop in Ballymoney until his father died. Ever since the family business has switched to the van.

On invitation I wandered over to the van and had a look inside. It was like a very small village butchers with cuts of meat set out in a small counter, much like you would see at one of the country markets that appear in our high streets. This guy was showing his meat to the people.

He had a food standard rating of 4 out of a possible 5 he told me up front. I admired his resourcefulness and his honesty. And his enterprising nature. I was surprised when he told me he had no high street or even village street presence. This was it, one man and his meat. In a van.

I admit I wasn’t blown away by his set up, but it was impressive. It reminded me of the old grocery vans that used to deliver back in Omagh in my distant childhood. There was something homely about them and the combination of smells that assailed my childish nostrils when I ventured in there.

In the butcher’s van the smell of flesh was heavy, oppressive and slightly overwhelming. He had a fridge on board, the place looked clean and tidy. And crucially for me there were no flies, always a good sign. I told him I would keep an eye for him on his return. I think it is the second such van doing the rounds of late – I may have imagined it but I thought I saw a fresh fish van drive up our way last week. If it appears again I will stop it and board it for inspection.

The point of this story is this. A while ago I wrote a piece for the Marketing Institute of Ireland on the use of social media in marketing. It referenced the way a crêpe seller in San Francisco with a handcart promoted his wares using Twitter. It was brilliant.

It got me thinking today, as you do. What if our mobile meat man had a Twitter account. What if he could tell his followers of his whereabouts each day?

What special offers he had, what special cuts and what this week’s sausages were. How do his customers know where to find him? Could the one man van and his meat have a Facebook page? And why not?

Without this insight he is like a modern day Telemachus travelling aimlessly in a meat Odyssey hoping to meet Ulysses. Along the way he may run into sirens posing as desperate housewives and the odd oxen of the sun. Whatever, the opportunity is there. Likewise the opportunity is also there to all those doing the country market circuit.

I let him go without offering any insight. Maybe next time. First I’d need to be sure I would buy his meat myself. After all, it’s all about the product.

Sorcha, with Hub never too far away.

This day last week I took our dog to the vet and had her put to sleep. I stayed with her and held her as the vet administered the lethal dose. Hub gradually relaxed and slipped away from me, her beautiful black coat still shining. Her gleaming eyes dulled as her spirit left her.

She had arrived about nine years ago as a six week old bundle of fun and mischief. At the time my son Leo was toddling about and he used to kick her vigorously as she stole his football and snapped at his feet. They both thought it was great fun.

She tortured our then other dog, a placid golden Labrador we called Peig, who was like the conscience of the house. Any raised voices she headed for cover. Not so Hub. She was a fairly indisciplined critter, at first when you took her for a walk she wouldn’t come back and she used to drive me into paroxysms of frustration as she ran round the car refusing to get in, bucking and lepping.

Once we left her with the friend I got her from when we went on holiday. She ate the bottom of his creosoted gate over the course of our break.

Even up to her final few days with us she enjoyed the odd glorious rampage, sprinting hither and thither with abandon.

As the children grew up, Hub was part of the family. She always showed up in portraits of the family drawn in primary school, this four legged black shape in the foreground. That’s Hub, the various children would declare matter of factly explaining their latest piece.

She was so much part of the family, the furniture and the fun round these parts that we took her for granted. Not so the postman, or coal and oil delivery men. She would rip the post from the post box and in the process destroyed a few cheques I received from clients and at least one DVD.

She would station herself in the car if a door were left open and developed a penchant for chewing seatbelts. An expensive taste, I spent several hundreds replacing them. Any coat left in the car was liable to have a bite taken out of it. She had a go at my training cones too when she got the chance.

The children loved Hub. Every morning Sorcha’s first point of call was a visit to the living room for a hug.

Last week I took her to the vet to have what I thought would be a diagosis of some sort of infection. Instead she had developed dog diabetes and we took the difficult decision to have her put to sleep. In this home we shared, the strict regime required to treat a diabetic dog with absolute rigour would not be practical. I was heartsore as I took her for a final walk down to the beach.

But it is what you sign up to with a dog. The agreement was there from the moment I lifted her in her cardboard. By taking on the responsibility of this black Labrador pup we also committed to being there with her to reassure her and comfort her when the vet puts her to sleep. You can do no less.

This day last week I took our dog to the vet and had her put to sleep. I stayed with her and held her as the vet administered the lethal dose. Hub gradually relaxed and slipped away from me, her beautiful black coat still shining. Her gleaming eyes dulled as her spirit left her. It broke my heart.

Putting the tin on.

A while back my wood supplier sold me a shipment of wood. He told me it had been seasoned. It wasn’t. It hisses and spits like a mean ole cat and the stove in the kitchen smokes like a train. In fact I was taking calls from the Vatican looking to borrow it for the recent election. Instead I referred them to my wood guy. Hopefully next time it will be better.

Leo decided he was doing goals for the u14 hurlers. Either that or he was picked. It required a trip to Scullion Hurls in Loughgiel to have a keeper’s hurl cut. Hurley maker Mick Scullion started the process while we waited, cutting the outline of the junior keeper’s hurl from a shaped plank of raw ash. His dad, Joe, the founder of the business then took over shaping the hurl down closer to its finished shape before Mick again stepped forward to sand it down to the required weight and finish. Joe advised getting the bas covered in muck to seal it before we might bring it back to get tinned.

Two generations of craftsmen a pleasure to watch, seeing the hurley in the ash, they set it free.

There’s something about Loughgiel. It’s not just a place. It’s a state of mind. I had cause to speak to Liam ‘Winker’ Watson about a game their underage players play. I had texted him asking the rules, his reply wasn’t precise enough so he called me to explain the rules in detail. Benches wouldn’t do Winker said, it had to be tables, the sort you might see in a canteen because the wee men might raise the ball he said. Instructions complete he gave a fleeting insight to their current state of readiness for the Antrim League and then was off. Sound fella Winker, in a league of his own. He came over to Owenbeg last year with the trophy and spent time with the youngsters. We all marvelled at the weight of his hurl, one of a fresh batch fashioned for each match by Mick Scullion. Whatever about the weight he knows how to wave it. Winkers Wand we named it last year. It carries a heavy responsibility.

The problem with hurling these days is the cold. Camoging too. I was only coaching on Sunday and my hands were freezing. Gráinne was fit to tell me the finger she had busted last summer ached in the cold. At the u14 match last week two boys had to be subbed it was that cold. Another cried when he got home he was that foundhered. Leo was OK in goals, we invested in a pair of expensive Skins leggings and he wore four layers on top. The keeper’s hurl did the job too.

I went back over last Saturday to Loughgiel to pick up a few Clones Mick had agreed to make for me. Again he had the rough shape done before finishing out the final sticks – one a 30, the other a 26, effortlessly mimicking Leo’s existing 28. Another Scullion original lifted off the shelf completed the deal. £70. For the four and three grips.

The other main point of note is the new workshop and showroom. Scullion Hurls have become part of the Économusée network a series of working craft museums across the north coast area. The new centre is superbly finished telling the story of the hurley makers, their craft and the games they serve. The attention to detail brilliant and the finished product excellent. There were three happy hurlers in our house for sure.

Next time I’m over I’ll be buying a few bags of seasoned offcuts of ash for the fire. It’ll burn better than the wet stuff. Should have done that in the first place. Maybe.

A poster at the Boss’s bus stop should do the trick.

You know the saying. If a bough breaks in the forest and no-one hears it, does it make a sound? Well. Marketing can be a bit like that. There’s being heard and there’s being heard. And then there’s people listening to you.

Once when I worked in the University of Ulster, we were charged annually with the job of marketing the institution’s nursing programmes to the local profession. The course offered included undergraduate programmes, postgraduate courses and programmes that were specialist in nature.

The latter were aimed at nurses already qualified who may wish to add further specialisms to their skills portfolio. It was all dressed up in very serious and sententious descriptions like those I have just used.

Each year we would churn out what was called the nursing prospectus, basically a fairly drab printed volume in which was abstracted the various nursing programmes. I remember once a colleague – actually I wouldn’t call him that, another employee in the University we’ll call him – picked holes in the project because he said it hadn’t been validated. Validated was a laborious process whereby the validation wonks read the material to make sure it complied with various strictures imposed by University statute.

I was more interested in the effectiveness of the marketing and the way in which we spent the budget. We developed advertising that presented the nursing career in its true light. Caring, professional, well trained dedicated. A true vocation.

As part of the marketing mix we arranged for flyer insertions in the professional nursing publications. The Nursing Times etc. The lady I worked with was a very petite professor of nursing. She was waspish is you didn’t know here, capable of the most scathing comment and caustic to those who crossed her. She and I got on very well.

With our plentiful marcomms mix we had the media booked, the material printed. We were all set. The on uncontrollable in this process is that inevitably someone somewhere screws up and the likes of myself were left to pick up whatever pieces there were.

This lady, we’ll call her Liz, was looking forward greatly to her copy of Nursing Standard or whatever her professional publication was. I had assured her that we she opened the cellophane the University’s Nursing flyer would very obtrusively fall into her lap.

Relaxing at home on the evening of D Day, the day we had planned when the campaign would break and nurses everywhere would be assailed with a barrage of UU themed nursing material, I was unprepared for the call I received.

The envelope stuffers of the publication in question had neglected to place the promotional material in the one envelope that politically I need to be bursting to the seams with University positivity.

A barbed and caustic phonecall from my hitherto nursing colleague, previously collegiate in the extreme, informed me the material wasn’t in her envelope and queried further how did I know it was anyone else’s package? The answer was of course, I didn’t but I had been reassured by the publication and the fulfilment house. The goodwill and positivity that had been built up evaporated in an instant.

Of course we tracked the problem down, one or two technical hitches had deprived Liz of her material and holed our marketing cred just above the waterline. Enough to destabilize but not sink us.

The lesson in all of this, is to ensure that irrespective of target audiences and demographics, make sure that the person writing the cheque and paying the bill has clear evidence that your marketing is happening.

It is a simple truism, but if they can’t see it, it isn’t happening. Even if it is the most hi vis campaign ever and you feel you have the world covered, make sure the man or woman with the money sees it in the real world. They may not be in the target audience but by hook or by crook, if the boss is driving home, make sure you have one of your 48 sheets at the side of the road so he can see it. Otherwise, it just ain’t happening.

Keep the Horse Outside

The current horsemeat scandal is an issue of food labelling and traceability moreso than bad taste.  The other overriding concern is that the nag on your plate is drugged up on bute or some other substance. We’ve been eating it for years and it hasn’t done any harm.

The episode has created an unrivalled opportunity for local butchers to assert their quality, their independence and their traceability. Ever since BSE when people madder than their cows were feeding them bits of other cows the meat industry has cleaned up its act, so we are told.

I have not consciously eaten horsemeat, although the chances are I have consumed it masquerading as something else. Once as a consented adult I ate a feed of calf brains. There was no masquerade there. It was vile in taste and texture but each to their own.

I enjoy a burger and it appears that a few of the burger emporia I frequent occasionally have been adulterating their produce with a little bit of Dobbin. I haven’t noticed myself moving any faster though not have I had an uncontrollable urge to clear fences.

I don’t share the public outrage, to be honest in general I am fairly sceptical about what I eat. As consumers for example we know little of the domestic conditions of the chicken we consume. Having owned a few hens for while I am also highly sceptical of the freshness of local farm fresh and free range eggs.

We ourselves are to blame. Us the consumers. In the demand for ever cheaper food, we consumers are driving down the price we are prepared to pay for our food. When farmers cannot produce food for the price they are forced to sell to major multiples then there is something wrong. How can you produce milks for a higher price per litre than a large supermarket will give you? It can’t be done.

People cannot expect to pay £1.50 for burgers and expect serious quality. Our wallets, not our palates dictate what we buy in the high street and in the supermarket. There is nothing instrinsically wrong with horsemeat. The French have eaten it for years. They know a hell of a lot more about food and taste than we do. Our palates tend to be dulled from years of bland food.

The lesson is simple. Shop at your local butcher and ask them where they get their meat.

Agnes O’Farrelly.

Next week the Camogie teams of Rower Inistioge and Castlegar take to the field in Ashbourne Donaghmore to contest the All Ireland Intermediate Club Final. Later that evening Milford of Cork and Killimor of Galway will contest the senior final in Croke Park. The senior game is a precursor to one of the Dublin football matches in the Spring series in which they face Mayo. For the last two years these games have been played as a showpiece double header at Croke Park.

This signifies a downgrading in the importance of the Club Camogie finals which is not good for the sport. The reason for this change I have been told is the costs of opening Croke Park are prohibitive. Shame on whoever has allowed this situation to develop. Surely some accommodation could have been reached?

In 2011 and 2012 both finals were held in Croke Park in early March and were allocated a Sunday all of their own. I know because I was there. There is an irony in that – the two years the intermediate finals were played at Croke Park we won both them. ‘We’ being the Eoghan Rua Camogie squad that I have the enjoyment and privilege of coaching. Arguably I have nothing to argue about.

Those two Sundays in March were among the highlights of those girls’ lives. Indeed our double winning captain Méabh McGoldrick said as much in her post match interview. It was certainly a highlight in mine.

The usual procedure was that the finals were run off in November and that is what we were preparing for back in 2010. I remember clearly when I learned that the 2010 final was being pushed back from November in that calendar year to March 2011. It was a stunning opportunity.

The reason? Solely because Croke Park had become available to club Camogie teams. It was considered a seminal moment in the promotion and status of the game.

The then President Joan O’Flynn said:

“The opportunity is now with four further teams to play in this fantastic stadium. Clubs are the backbone of the Association and play a thriving part in communities all across Ireland. March 6th will bring together families and communities to support their camogie club side. There is a strong pride and interest in the players’ achievement in representing their clubs and county on our finest stage in Croke Park.”

That sentiment applies now as much as it did then. Although it was a prestige target and meant winning a semi final had even more at stake, the repercussions for our club were serious. The new schedule caused untold logistical issues.

The squad had to furlough their training because of the break in matches from October to February. When we resumed training it was in the worst winter in decades, and our girls trained in the worst of weather conditions, snow, frost, temperatures down to minus double figures.

Hiring facilities and lights was a concern. It cost us in excess of £100 a week to hire a pitch with lights at the local rugby club keep our squad in preparation for the semi final, and then the final in Croke Park. That didn’t include food every night at training, other costs of coaches and travel, gear and so on. In total the experience cost around £13,000, all of which was fundraised. It was worth every penny.

This is including the costs for accommodation and travel when our semi final was postponed the morning it was due to be played, wiping out £3000 costs in an instant for an overnight stay we didn’t need and for which we received no recompense.

But the experience for our players could not have a price put upon it. To win in Croke Park is every player’s dream and to do it twice was a serious achievement.

A week or so back I learned that this year’s Intermediate finalists will not get the chance to play in Croker. I couldn’t believe it. Also, the two matches have been decoupled. What was a brilliant day out for Camogie and a celebration of the sport has been diminished and done away with. And why? Apparently the costs of opening Croke Park for these games are prohibitive. Irrespective of the rights and wrongs of that, the question has to be asked when did the Camogie authorities make this decision? Players have been training over the Christmas period and into the New Year because the final was scheduled for Croker. If that was not the case why was the tournament not run off prior to Christmas?

Croke Park may belong to the GAA. The GAA is all of us, we are all part of the same community and part of the same clubs. And in the spirit of integration the players that have qualified for these finals should have been given their day in sun. Not booked ended onto a Saturday night GAA fixture and elbowed out the road to Ashbourne.

Would it not be a suitable gesture from the GAA to ensure that these competitions and the ladies football finals are given their day in the sun in Croker? The girls train just as hard and display the same commitment as their male counterparts.

All I know is that out players were privileged to win their finals in Croke Park. Other girls deserve the same opportunity. It will not take away the gloss of winning but it adds an undeniable glamour.

Instead, Camogie once again sucks the hind tit. So much for integration.