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Clothes Maketh the Man
Clothes maketh the man, we're told (and as woman, be it the mammy, the missus or any one of the myriad categories of partner we have these days, maketh man wear what she tells him to wear, then it's quite clear who really maketh the man, but that's something for another day).
If that is truly the case, then what should one make of the style on show weekly (or should that be weakly?) at the local mart?
If men in general are not that high up in the betting in the Sartorial Stakes, then where does one find the male constituents (please note that I am concentrating solely on the lesser sex here - I am not at all qualified to proclaim on this subject with any reference whatsoever to our superiors) of the farming community lurking?
I hasten to add that I am speaking strictly about workwear - no better men to dazzle at local shindigs or at a protest in Kildare Street than men of the soil. And as for the young farm-fellas of today.
No, what is under scrutiny here is the everyday/everynight cattle-feeding, calf-pulling, muck-scraping, sheep-dipping attire of the farmer in his workplace. Does it do justice to the status of the wearer? Does it reflect his standing in modern Ireland?
Does it scrape itself off its attiree at the end of the week and walk hurriedly towards the washing-machine, only to be intercepted by a familiar female foe and thrown into an old barrel out in the yard to soak for a month or two?
It is probably fair to say that appearance is not foremost in the concerns of the farmer as he goes about his daily toil. Availability and expendability figure more prominently as criteria when he avails of that five-second window of decision-making opportunity prior to setting off for work.
His clothes for the day have to be at his fingertips, (what was worn yesterday, and indeed on many yesterdays, will do just fine) and have to possess sufficiently low value, in a monetary sense, to make encounters with slurry, after-births or any of the various scours known to man no cause for any prior deliberation whatsoever. If something has to be sacrificed, well, there's no contest.
Invariably, hand-me-downs fit the bill perfectly. When I say hand-me-downs, I am expanding the meaning of the phrase to include cast-offs not from others in the strictest sense, but from his other self, his alter ego, so to speak.
That version of him which he dusts down, cleans up and takes out on occasions of a formal nature, like the previously mentioned social outings, meetings with the bank manager, funerals, weddings and such-like.
While what he decks himself out in on these sorties into the Otherworld can take a while to reach re-grading status (they don't get out that often), they do tend to also have a fairish longevity in their new role, thanks to their initial quality.
However, an encounter with a piece of barbed wire or a whitethorn hedge, not the type of thing envisaged or planned for by their designer, can bring an abrupt end to their twilight career, the sewing skills of the household notwithstanding.
If a new outfit (very loose terms), one going direct to farm duties, has to be acquired there are two possible providers. The most recent of these to get into this very specialised area is the local co-op or hardware store.
There you can find the most up-to-date in workwear, all sorts of fancy overalls, raingear and hardwearing, if a little unflattering, denims.
For the traditionalist, this is probably a bit too flash, a bit too close to town, literally and figuratively. He relies on the tried and trusted, the travelling draper who sets out his stall, again literally and figuratively, at the mart where he has greatest access to his target market.
Like his customers, he has no ambitions beyond his station - he offers a good solid, reliable product to men with an eye for value and serviceability.
Hanging from the frame of his temporary emporium are jackets, trousers, footwear, even unmentionable unmentionables, which have stood the test of time - fashions in the Otherworld may come and go but here the cat-walk gives way to the cattle-, sheep- or pig-walk. This year's black is always at least quite dark, if not exactly totally black.
The cut of the cloth doesn't vary from season to season. Straightforward, frill-less, these clothes were made for farming and that's just what they'll do.
And, y'know, isn't there something really life-affirming about a place of work where clothes, which have so much to say for themselves and have so much said about them and their wearers in the 'real' world, do what's required of them and no more?
They cover us, they protect us, they suffer with us - if we can stick our hands into the nether regions of an animal in the throes of labour, then our sleeves can come with us as well, as far as they have to. A bit of water and soap/washing powder will sort us both out later on.
And, oh, the freedom of wandering around for days on end in clashing holey jumpers and collar-frayed shirts, in jackets of indeterminable vintage - I have a marvellous specimen which is serving its second generation and is still imparting a great sense of durability, not to mention protection from the more and more unpredictable elements. God protect us for all time from Burberry.
Down on the farm, clothes don't maketh the man, they serveth him.
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