Scary stories from a lovely place
Stephen’s arrival on Saturday afternoon was joyous and wonderful and exciting.
On Saturday afternoon Stephen’s sister and her family dropped by for the spontaneous administration of a solemn and somewhat sad (if you consider Irish history) cultural tradition – the harvesting of the potatoes.
I had seen the scrappy plants in the garden and thought they were some out of control vine that had died. But the spongey looking branches were actually the potato plants. Their apparent ill-health actually spoke of harvest readiness.
Stephen’s brother in law and nephew dived in with the spades and the harvest begun. Trowels were sourced from the polytunnel for Silas and Oisín to lend a hand and buckets began to respond with the satisfying thud of potato piling upon potato.
Soon, a wheelbarrow was found to share the load with the buckets. After much dirt was tossed and potatoes moved from ground to bucket to wheelbarrow the harvest was complete.
I was astounded by the result. There were at least 300 of varied size and colour, and numerous bigger than a manly man’s fist. I had no idea that a few potato plants in a garden bed no wider than half a metre could yield such an abundant crop.
We followed on from the harvest with wheelbarrow rides and then dinner of pie and potato chips. It was a good first day at home for Stephen.