Ever the astute observer, the late Gerry Bird once remarked that my father was the last of the generation of people who used to fix or service machines themselves. Nowadays, people fix practically nothing themselves and generally ring the service man.

Gerry had come into the workshop one morning while my father was de-coking the Aga cooker’s cast vaporising ring. Not that that is particularly difficult.

Anyone with one left and one right hand can de-carbon an Aga but only the chosen few can successfully re-light the shaggin’ thing. It is one of the dark and mysterious arts and I’m not so endowed.

But Gerry had hit the nail on the head. My father, while being an extraordinarily busy man, would always attempt a service or a repair himself, typically before he left for the office in the morning.

Whether it was fitting new bearings into the Bendix washing machine (at least three times a year) or straightening a buckled flywheel on the Kidd double-chop harvester (once a season), it didn’t matter, he’d take it on.

My father, while being an extraordinarily busy man, would always attempt a service or a repair himself, typically before he left for the office in the morning

Years ago, one summer Saturday evening, I damaged my hand-me-down Rotary watch while unblocking the New Holland baler. I showed it to my father who was, as ever, busy at something. “Bring it with you to Ballivor church tomorrow morning and I’ll have a look at it during the sermon,” he said. So with the pulpit steps creaking in the background, I handed the watch over.

The Reverend O’Byrne pontificated from the pulpit about keeping the Sabbath holy for a good 20 minutes but that morning it was lost on Dad. He had dexterously unscrewed the back of the watch, bit the end off a match and commandeering my mother’s brooch pin began operating deep within the heart of the 17-jewel watch.

It was a race against time and it looked like the Rev O’Byrne was about to wind things up but Dad was still immersed with the watch. O’Byrne could clearly see the master craftsman still at work, so out of courtesy, he kicked for touch and told the gospel story about pulling the ass out of a pit on the Sabbath.

You see, it cut both ways. If O’Byrne wanted anything done in the parish, Dad was the man. Shortly, as Rev O’Byrne descended, the watch was reassembled and handed back to me, ticking and at the right time. It stayed working for years after.

While mechanically, in theory, I’m good but I prefer to leave it to the professionals

Dad didn’t believe in main-dealer servicing machines in general. I’d say to him about getting Armstrongs to service the New Holland 1540S combine and he wouldn’t agree. He had an aversion to paying anyone to do what you should be able to do yourself. He was, as Gerry Bird observed, a man of his time, when machines were simpler and with a toolbox full of spanners and a can-do attitude, you could fix anything.

Perhaps it’s a good thing he’s not around today. I am not my father’s son in this regard. While mechanically, in theory, I’m good but I prefer to leave it to the professionals. But Dad must have rotated in his grave when I recently shelled out €850 for a 500-hour service on the Fendt 718 and €1,500 for the same on the Fendt 724 – a service you cannot do yourself. Otherwise, the manufacturer’s extended warranty is invalidated.

Repair bills

Our Claas combine costs a fortune every year to keep it running sweetly. The beloved but aging Bateman is no saint either and runs up hefty repair bills. And if Dad knew that I paid €150 last week to have the Aga serviced – I do it every year – he’d be rotating again. But he can rest in peace with the JCB – we service that ourselves.