There is no doubt that beyond The Pale nothing is as plain as it appears. Truth, lies, fiction and fact are often tangled together in a mix that’s almost impossible to disentangle. It’s all part of that age-old battle of wits between rural people as they attempt to maintain some scintilla of privacy in a world where everybody wants to know everyone else’s business.

One of the great songs to come out of the recent troubles emanated from the border counties in places where keeping one’s counsel was often a matter of mortal self-preservation. Entitled Whatever You Say, Say Nothin’, the song could be described as the real national anthem of rural Ireland.

Country people go to all kinds of extents to mask facts and hide the full picture in the interest of protecting their much-prized privacy. Men can be especially economical with information. Thinking the women are telling everybody everything, they regard it as their job to fight a rear guard action before all the family jewels and carbuncles are laid bare for the world to see.

Some men, no matter how you try to get information from them, will block you at every turn. With the strength and dexterity of hairy All Blacks protecting the Kiwi endline, they keep all comers at bay. I’m reminded of Patsy Hennessy from Teerawadra, who comes to Killdicken every Friday to do the Lotto. He’s afraid if he plays it too close to home and wins he will be easily identified.

Anyway, he often drops in to Tom Walshe’s for a pint, where Pa Cantillon enjoys nothing better than attempting to prise information out of him. Cantillon meets Patsy at the mart, but neither at the mart nor in the pub does the Teerawadra man part with anything beyond a comment on the weather.

“You got good prices for that bunch of cattle last week.”

“Did I?”

“They made €1,500 apiece.”

“Did they?’

“Are they all out of your own bull?”

“Some of them could be I suppose.”

This is not just typical of Patsy, it’s typical of many a conversation in rural Ireland. In my own particular field of local politics, you’d want to be a clairvoyant to know what people are telling you on the doorsteps. If you ask them whether they’ve decided what way they’re going to vote, the most likely answer is: “Sure you’d never know.”

Another inscrutable response you get is: “It depends.” You’d be afraid to ask what it depends on.

As we are talking about local interest in gossip and scandal, The Mother and myself, and indeed Tinky Ryan, have been centre-field in the gossip stakes here for the last few weeks.

As you know, my little farm at Lisnapookybawna was up for auction recently. The event was held in the Drippin’ Tap in Shronefodda and with four bidders driving the price through the roof, I thought I’d never see a poor day again, that was until Tinky Ryan adjourned proceedings to consult with me.

In the course of the consultations, we discovered the whole thing was a ball of smoke being puffed up by four puffers, two engaged by me, with the other two working for Tinky. We couldn’t be seen to withdraw the farm at such a good price, so we made contact with our respective puffers and told them to puff off.

After the consultation, Tinky returned to the auction room to look for a last bid and expecting none, he intended to withdraw the property. To our shock, there was another bid, a pinstriped solicitor from Kilkenny put his hand up and Tinky brought down the gavel. I thought I was on the pig’s back again, but found myself back in the scutter when it emerged that the pinstripe was acting on behalf of The Mother. The transaction couldn’t go ahead: selling the farm to The Mother would be like selling it to myself.

The deal collapsed and it became the talk of South Tipp. Between the solicitor and Tinky, they relieved The Mother and myself of the bones of €5,000, thanks to poor internal communications and stubbornness.

Last Friday evening, Patsy Hennessy was in Walshe’s after buying Lotto tickets and I was in for a quiet pint. Cantillon spent a half an hour vainly trying to draw talk from the visitor. During a lull in the conversation, Hennessy surprised us with an unprovoked breach of the silence.

“I hear there were at least two very frightened little piggys at an auction in the Drippin’ Tap last week,” he said.

“The oracle speaks,” says Cantillon.

“Of what does he speak?” asked Cantwell.

“Oh,” says Patsy. “I hear the little piggys invited some big bad wolves to frighten the money out of people, but the wolves were a bit too enthusiastic. It appears they huffed and they puffed and they blew the house down.”