It was a sunny Saturday morning in early September. Just perfect for a blast in the open-top MX-5. Haven’t had the chance in weeks but, unfortunately, work comes first. There’ll be another day.

The forecast for the weekend was good, but it wasn’t meant to last. So I had to get on and sow the oilseed rape. It was now or never; it was already late.

I had the Horsch drill on the tractor. All I had to do was calibrate the seed and fertiliser and I’d be off raising dust in half an hour. I hung the calibration bag under the seed metering unit and switched it on. Within seconds, there was a strange whine out of the motor and the seed flow abruptly stopped.

I swore loudly – this hadn’t happened before and, being electronic, it wasn’t something that I’d likely fix. I didn’t need this now of all days. I’d have to phone a friend.

I phoned Fergal, who’s a Horsch service engineer in Kelly’s of Borris. Fergal is one of the six indispensable service engineers I’d call when the proverbial hits the fan. We’d all be lost without them.

It was a new problem to Fergal. He suggested doing a few tests, but no, he couldn’t come to me as he was stuck up the arse of a combine down in Wexford. I’d have to sort this on my own.

An intervention

Adversity shared is a million times better than adversity on your own. Jason wasn’t in and Max had just left to do a nixer in Australia. No, not Athy or Athboy, Australia. That didn’t leave me with many options.

Mrs P. I’d try Mrs P. I’d never called on her before for a hand with the spanners. In fact, the last actual farming help I’d asked her for was to draw grain for an afternoon in 1990 with the Fendt 610 and Eureka trailer.

This she did admirably, but it was exceptional circumstances. Besides we were only married two years and you know how it is. Anyhow, I don’t cook even in exceptional circumstances. Didn’t then, don’t now. It’s a Pot Noodle or die.

Now, while Mrs P’s spanner knowledge might be very minimal – if I asked for a size 7 she’d probably offer me her shoe and a size 14 could leave her shirtless – but, at the very least, she would be good moral support. That’s important because I was feeling the pressure of solitude. The tools were warm from the sunshine which had me wired to get going. I’d have to unbolt the seed metering motor, which requires an act of sadistic contortion to do on your own.

It’s the tillage equivalent of rolling up your sleeve, sticking your bare arm up the rear-end of a cow and groping frantically, not sure of what to expect. (I should say, for any Horsch purists out there, the motor is normally held in place by plastic hand-screws, which are easy to open, but mine is now bolted in. The screws are made out of recycled chewing gum.)

Mrs P was happy to give it a whirl and rolled up her sleeve in readiness. I gave her a size 13 spanner and reaching blindly up into the metering unit, she quickly located the bolt heads, which I opened. I swapped the motor with the one on the fertiliser metering unit and it worked. Then I swapped them back and it worked. It was now mid-afternoon.

Mrs P had left at this stage, which was unfortunate for her, because I’d gladly have wagered a €100 bet with her that it wouldn’t work in the field. But it did. Happy days.