When my husband first mentioned his family farm a few dates into our relationship, I didn’t think much of it. I come from a farming family as well. We raised beef cattle my whole life – but this was in a different country. I could not have known then what the farm means to an Irish farming family. I also could not have known how much trouble, anxiety, pride, happiness and overall emotion comes with marrying an Irish farmer.

My husband was not meant to farm and I never thought we would end up living on the farm. When we moved to do so, I learned my first real lessons on how to live in an Irish farming family. This was due to a falling out with another family member – the one who was actually meant to take over the farm. Whether the fallout concerned one person feeling left out of the farming decisions, or feeling misunderstood, or whether it was about the fact that my father-in-law isn’t interested in retiring anytime soon, it left a gaping hole in the family succession and, really, in the family itself. I couldn’t understand why it happened, but soon learned that where the farm is concerned, emotions always run high.

When my husband’s sibling left the farm, that left my father-in-law on his own. It also left an entire house empty, just waiting to be lived in. I didn’t feel right about how things ended with my husband’s sibling, but – if I’m completely honest – a rent-free home was extremely appealing to me. I had just had our first baby and we were living in a semi-detached in a nearby city where my husband’s day job was located.

At first, he told me we would just move to the farm so my father-in-law wouldn’t be alone. He said he was staying out of the farm business and would only help his father when he really needed it – like for silage or calving season. I naively believed him. And, also, I just really wanted to raise our kids in the countryside.

But, of course, if you’re living on a farm, you’re never really able to opt out of farming. Things started off with my husband doing the odd milking, helping on Saturdays and – working to his strengths – helping with the book-keeping. That amount gradually increased until my husband was waking up at 5am to milk, going to work, coming home to milk and then going to bed.

If I’m starting to sound bitter, please know that I’m not. I have watched my husband go from close-to-zero interest in anything farm-related to developing a passion and devotion to his family farm. It has been hard at times – especially with small, screaming babies and no help at bedtimes – but I wouldn’t change my life for the world. I wouldn’t change my husband, either. I wouldn’t even change my father-in-law.

I have learned a lot over the past several years of living on an Irish farm and being part of an Irish farming family. My house is always full of dirty boots, half-drunk cups of tea and farm-related dockets. I have long since made peace with the fact that Saturdays will never be family days. I have even come to terms with the fact that any work needing to be done on the farmhouse will always have a lower priority than anything that needs fixing on the farm.

My husband has grown so much over the past several years, though. And he is so supportive of my work and outside activities – I find it difficult to begrudge him his time on the farm. His relationship with his father has strengthened, which is wonderful, but I still believe the past falling out has had a detrimental effect on my father-in-law. It’s hard for him to trust anyone with the farm again.

Land, where I’m from, is plentiful and lush. We have plenty of fields in which our animals graze, and a seemingly endless supply of fresh water everywhere for them to drink. As a result, I spent my life taking land for granted. That doesn’t happen here – the land is revered, extremely well cared for and the family farm is so much more than a physical entity.

It’s a livelihood. It’s a constant work-in-progress. Its meticulous care requires not just one farmer working the land and caring for the animals, it requires the time and attention of every family member – every neighbour (at times) and, really, the whole community.

But, for the family, the farm is a symbol of pride, a job well done and a business that has been a part of us for hundreds of years. It’s a living, thriving history.

I get it now. I may not love living on a farm all the time, and I may never really understand the intricacies of the elusive father-son farm transfer, but I’m getting there. Just don’t tell my husband.