The Ghost of Glen Farm

How I learned the power of a properly executed profanity

Actual Pictures of Me With My Animals Circa 1990

This story is 100% true and happened to me in February of 1990. I grew up on a farm in rural Ireland, and as childhoods go this was fucking idyllic. My only responsibility was going to school but other than that I spent every minute I had working on the farm. I was building a fucking farming empire. On my stock sheets at the tender age of (nearly) eleven, I had:

· Two sheep (one ewe, one lamb)

· Five goats (two nanny goats, three kid goats)

· Three donkeys (two mares, one foal)

Anyone who tells you puppies or kittens are the cutest animals on the planet is a fucking liar. I will take the Pepsi challenge with them any day. The cutest animal on the planet is without doubt a donkey foal. They are bloody beautiful. They are friendly, curious and love a bit of petting every bit as much as any puppy or kitten.

After school my usual day was pretty much eat my dinner and do my homework as quick as possible. The best way to do this was to do the two things at once. Why do one thing right when you can do two things pretty shittily in the same amount of time? Then get out the door, across the lawn, up the laneway, over the gate and across the two fields to get to the old farmhouse and farmyard. Do whatever needed to be done. Feed sheep, dose sheep, put down bedding, count cattle (the pricks know you’re doing it and always choose that moment to start walking in fucking circles to confuse the shit out of you), count the cattle again. All of this came with a healthy dose of messing with the dog, fighting battles against invading hoards of nettles and trying to catch that black rabbit that seemed to grow more fecking brazen every day.

Our farm was predominantly a sheep farm and Spring is without a doubt the busiest time of year. When sheep are lambing, it’s all hands-on deck and keep going until you get out the other side. It’s a 24–7 job. Sheep are all housed for the winter so at least they’re all in one place. Every time a new lamb is born you need to separate the mother and lamb from the rest of the flock or they’re in danger of being trampled to fucking death. That means you can’t leave them to their own devices for more than a few hours.

One Friday in February after school I’m over giving a dig out. Myself, my Father (Tom) and a neighbour (Jim) shooting the shit in the farmyard. Big nearly eleven-year-old man listening in on the adult conversation.

My Father turned around to the neighbour and said “Myself and Dan have great chats here of a night.”

Sounds innocent enough only I know that Dan is the previous owner of this farm and has been dead for nearly twenty fucking years. Jim’s face dropped “Ah for fuck sake Tom, you can’t be saying that shit. You telling me this place is fucking haunted?”

“Ah I wouldn’t go as far as to call the place fucking haunted. He keeps an eye on the place and lets me know what’s going on. He’s full of auld stories.”

“Fuck off” said Jim “I’m never coming near this cursed place again.”

“Ah, quit talking shit. Shur haven’t I been talking to him for years and nothing’s ever happened me. He likes me.”

Easy for my father to say, but I’m thinking I’m pretty much on Jim’s fucking side for this one. We finish up the work for the day and head home for a bit of supper. Around 8pm, he does a late check on the sheep, comes back to the house and announces himself and my mother are heading to the local for “a few fucking scoops” which is fair enough and well deserved after a long hard week’s work. The problem was the next bit “which means you’re going to have to do the midnight check.”

I feel a little bit of explanation is needed here. This is 1990 the world wide web had just been invented, Sinead O Connor “Nothing Compares 2 U” was number one in the Irish charts (absolute fucking classic by the way), the 1st generation iPhone was a mere seventeen fucking years away. Our farm was as modern as it sounds. We didn’t have any fancy closed-circuit TV channels for watching the animals. The midnight check was a physical check that involved putting on your fucking wellies and a coat and walking out in the cold. Usually a bit of an adventure, but after the chat in the yard earlier, my initial thought was “Fuck That. I will in my hole go to that poltergeist-infested hellscape in the middle of the night.” But what could I do? I’d have to nut up and get this shit done.

Gets to about eleven and I start to panic. It’s pitch dark outside. Not a star in the fucking sky and the temperature has dropped to well below 0 degrees (Irish, that’s proper Celsius not that batshit crazy Fahrenheit scale that makes about as much sense as line dancing). I’m staying up late watching Moonlighting with Bruce Willis and Cybil Shepherd, because we only have the two TV channels and the other one has finished for the night. When it finishes, it’s time for me to suit and boot up and face the fucking ghouls in the dark.

I grab a torch from the hall on my way out of the house, cut across the lawn with the frost crunching under my feet. Head up the lane, absolutely shitting myself at every shadow that moves in the torchlight and every branch that rustles in the breeze. I climb the gate and start walking across the two fields. Again, I can hear the frost crunching under my feet. Then I hear another noise that sounds like another set of footsteps in the frost coming up behind me.

I stop….. they stop.

I move on again, they move on again.

I move faster, they move faster.

In my head I’m going “Oh fuck, oh fuck, it’s the fucking ghost of Dan fucking whatever-his-surname-was and he’s going to kill me”

I summon up all my courage, slow down and stop again (the footsteps behind me slow down and stop again too). I take a deep breath and with torch in hand I slowly start to turn around. There behind me is that fucking donkey foal following me looking for a bit of petting.

I scream “what the fuck” at the top of my voice, and that’s probably the moment my relationship with profanity properly began. So yeah, maybe I won’t take that Pepsi challenge. Maybe puppies and kittens are cuter than donkey foals.