It’s a dreary, dragged-out and drippy harvest not worth talking about, so we’ll park it for now.

In the 1980s, we had two full-time men working on the farm, along with myself. Obviously, it was great for the busy periods – with more tractors then, than we have today – but it was difficult to keep the men gainfully employed in the winter months. But my late father would dream up work for us to do, ranging from concreting in Delvin saleyard, to house painting.

One wintery February morning, he asked me what I was doing with the men. I pretended we had plenty to do, but he wasn’t convinced.

“I was over in that aul’ house of yours (me and Mrs P were just married and installed),” he said. “And that hall and dining room could do with painting. You and the men should do it now – it’ll only cost the price of the paint and I’ll get the VAT back on that.”

I thought it a great idea and besides, my new darling wife would be delighted when she returned from work to see a new colour scheme taking shape. So, without further ado, I sent the two men over to start stripping doors and wallpaper while I went to get paint. I’d pick the colours myself, no problem. I’m good with colours.

Eight hours later we had the door stripping done and emulsion on the walls all by the time Mrs P came in from work. Oh, oh, she was not a happy bunny. We shouldn’t have stripped the doors, as we’d destroyed the Victorian faux wood graining and period features. The colours were awful and it was sloppy workmanship. Oh dear.

I think of this today for two reasons. Mrs P, for reasons best known to herself, has had the dining room re-painted professionally, apparently for our second daughter’s wedding next year. All my lovely colour choices and craftmanship are gone. I thought it was a lifetime job.

This rotten aul’ harvest will hardly pay for the heritage paint, let alone the painters and decorators she engaged. And there’s a new Ulster carpet ordered…

I was also recently reminded of another of my father’s painting projects. The Church of Ireland church in Ballivor was shabby and funds were low, so we were sent to paint it with a borrowed pair of creaky wooden extension ladders. While stripping the flaking paint off the walls, a fresco appeared, I think of The Last Supper. I’m no art historian but it did look interesting, so I told Dad about it that night. But his instructions were simple; don’t waste any time exposing it – or even touching it up – just paint over it with a good dollop of cheap and cheerful yellow emulsion.

The job was duly completed and the Reverend O’Byrne was none the wiser as to my discovery and was delighted with his smartened-up little church.

Last week I was in Ballivor and the long-closed church has been reincarnated as a village library, a project that has been going on for years. But it was now actually open, so in I went chiefly to see if our painting (and decoration) had stood the test of time.

I couldn’t believe my eyes as I entered the church. The fresco – yes, the one we painted over – was fully exposed and restored at huge cost by Meath County Council and looked incredible. The chancel had its beautiful starry ceiling intact – we hadn’t touched it all those years ago. Dad knew his painters weren’t quite up to the standard of Michelangelo’s painting of the Sistine Chapel. Besides our short careers as painters and decorators was over. It was just grey oxide on sheds and red gloss on gates after that.