The Gladiator of Kilmichael

I'm only back from Rome, after a short spell away, and I feel like Russell Crowe entirely now.

My chest is swollen to an immense degree (it might be the drink), my head is bursting with mad thoughts and crazy ambitions (it could also be the drink).

But regardless of the fine time I had, I'm back home now, working the land like never before.

I'm striding through the fields like Maximus Decimus Meridius, in wellington boots.

My fingers running gently through the rushes as I move.

The cattle must think I'm amazing. I think I'm amazing.

I look around at my old yard with the building's half falling down and am reminded of the ancient ruins of Rome.

The other day, the vet called to squeeze a few bulls, and I informed him that I had just returned from Rome and that I felt like a Gladiator.

"Good man Denny," says he. "But would you mind holding onto the tails nice and tight."

"I will," says I. It was hard to concentrate on the job in hand, with my head still in the Trevi Fountain.

But in fairness to me, I did my best.

And in fairness to the vet, he later remarked that I had held the dirty tails with great strength.

"When you stare at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel for hours without blinking," I told him, "It's bound to have an effect."

And later in the evening, as I transported a few bales into a field of cattle, using my tractor and cocklifter, I felt like Ben Hur in his chariot.

I probably looked like him too.

The cattle cheered me on as I rattled towards my destination and then I tossed in the square bales into the round feeder, like Charlton Heston.

The farm was beginning to resemble Circus Maximus. T'was hard to see it any other way.

With all my jobs done and a happy field of livestock in my wake, I steered for home.

The ruts in the field now only served to spurn me on as I cut my path.

Rushes and furze gave way to the mighty man and his machine.

Nothing could stop me. I felt invincible.

But alas, for me, my tractor wasn't up to the task, and I lost a wheel before I made it back to the yard.

The Charioteer of Kilmichael had suddenly lost his spin.

From there on, I had to make the journey by foot.

But I didn't mind this either, for in Rome walking is all they do. I was well used of plodding along after my few days in the Eternal City.

And so, as I came back down to earth in Kilmichael, I thought about the future and planned my course of action.

The tractor would need to be repaired, and you didn't need to be Caesar Augustus to figure that one out.

Other jobs too needed to be done. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, but perhaps the day after.

"Rome wasn't built in one day," I concluded as I kicked off my wellington boots by the back door, before retiring to my chaise longue by the fire.