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Not Making Hay: The Life and Deadlines of a ‘Diary’ Farmer

Frank McNally

Gill Books 2025

Twenty-four hours after finishing this book, Not Making Hay, which I read in one sitting, I am still immersed in Frank’s writing style:  wonderful tangents and connections across people and places and time, and at the heart of all his writing, storytelling. I feel I can write of the author by his first name as I have had the privilege of meeting him many years ago when I was in Dublin presenting an exhibition at James Joyce House at 15 Usher’s Island, with the blessing and creative drive of the then owner. 

Frank is the Chief Writer of The Irishman’s Diary / An Irish Diary (he explains the dual naming) in The Irish Times (a column first appearing in 1927, Frank McNally took it on in 2006). I don’t know what he will make of my comparison, but his columns are for me like Bach’s music; music that takes me on an unexpected musical ride that twists and turns but comes back home at the end (note this caveat: my knowledge of music is only as a listener with no expertise accompanying the enjoyment).

With Frank McNally’s columns, the opening line sets up what you think the column is about, then the words take flight down many pathways, only to return and settle back into the opening subject. I was fascinated (and dare I say vindicated) when I read this in Not Making Hay: 

My favourite column subjects are things you see or hear that make you think and, when you think, that connect with something else in an interesting way. Ideally, that second thing then leads to a third thing, and/or back to where you started, in an elegant train of thought that stretches for at least 800 words without straining.

As a reader, I can attest that the train of thought is always elegant.

On his publisher’s website (Gill Books) they introduce the book in this way:

the man who has consistently held his finger on the pulse of a nation, turns his attention inwards and gathers his thoughts into a profound narrative of great depth.

Picking up on a variety of personal themes which have featured in his column in part or in whole over the years, the book is at once a cohesive reflection on Frank’s upbringing in Monaghan, his early career as a civil servant and his eventual foray into journalism, but also covers significant events which have shaped him and the Ireland which he has chronicled with such consistently brilliant perception and wit.

Each chapter weaves in family, rural Ireland, world travel, city life, history, and significant personal moments alongside the picture of the political and cultural fabric of Ireland.

I have reread two pieces several times:

The Night I had John Hume in My Car - 30 0ctober 1999

Plan B in Operation: A Surprise Double - 7 July 2003

They are perfect examples of why I read Frank’s column – witty, interesting and relatable. As is so often the case, I can hear my grandmother (Mrs Kennelly, who lived with us) telling stories with her siblings of their upbringing, peppered with what I think of as an Irish flavour. When Frank talks of his Auntie Mary and her description of someone ‘losing the run of yourself’ I hear my grandmother; when he explains the ‘meejum’ glass of stout, I hear my Great Aunt and Nanna talking of the two hotels in inner city Melbourne, Australia that their Irish female forebears ran for fifty plus years.

It was personally lovely to read his piece with a nod to James Joyce’s wonderful short story The Dead and the ‘snow being general all over Ireland’ – a significant reference in my life as both an Australian with Irish roots and a bookseller who hosted an exhibition in the house at the centre of that story.

Most poignant is Frank’s recounting of his journalist niece (Áine Kerr) writing in The Irish Times of his mother’s passing – it is a beautiful and deeply affecting few pages.

The Irish diaspora spreads out across the world and has, to this day, a vibrant and active role in the local society. This memoir is a gift of familiarity and belonging. For everyone else, this review is intended to introduce you to Frank McNally, an Irishman, skilled journalist, and wonderful storyteller.  I am awaiting delivery of more copies for the gift-giving season that is upon us.

A Fortunate Life

A.B. Facey

Recently in my home country of Australia, people were invited to vote for the Top 100 Books of the 21st Century. Organised by the Australian Broadcasting Corporation (ABC), a series of programs ran to support the building of the list on the station, Radio National.

Having been a bookseller for 40 years, a librarian for five years, and now involved in the legal community with regard to publications, I read the list with interest. Many of the titles I had either read, sold, gifted or recommended over my career or from my personal reading list.

I would suggest that polls such as this, whilst interesting, are not necessarily significant. I applaud anything that promotes reading and the celebration of writers, however their real value, I believe, lies in the confirmation that reading is an intensely personal pursuit and so much of the circumstance of when, where, how and why we read a specific book will lead to where that book sits in our memory and how we ‘rate’ it out of all the books we have read. 

An example is A Fortunate Life by A.B. Facey, published in 1981. At that time, I was only a couple of years into my bookselling career. Despite the financial constraint that comes when there are seven children to raise, my mother fed my love of books and this in turn led to me embarking on a librarianship degree and, concurrently, a bookselling role.

The impact of this book on me was profound, not least because the author was born the year before my maternal grandmother and many of his recollections in this autobiography were familiar of her stories and life in Australia (Facey was born in 1894 and died in 1982). I had a physical reaction to his writing – my mind stilled, my breathing slowed – it was as if the rhythm of his life was infectious.

The Afterword, written by Jan Carter, in my ‘Special Edition’ (cased, hardcover) encapsulates the essence of the influence of this book on the reader. Here are the opening and closing sentences of that Afterword:

Albert Facey is Australia’s pilgrim. He wrote about his life as if it were a journey. Along his route, crossroads offered crucial choices – in some cases his very survival was at stake – and the tracks he followed led to learning, pain, and enrichments. Finally, all routes, rough and smooth, were brought together in his old age in a powerful outburst of creative activity – the book that integrated the experiences of his ‘fortunate life’. (Jan Carter)

Albert Facey has provided for ordinary people an understanding of their past which has challenged their view of the present and realigned their aims for the future. In this respect, his journey was most fortunate for all of us. (Jan Carter)

This autobiography from an ‘everyday’ Australian garnered praise on release, was included in school study lists, and saw the author nominated for Australian of the Year (an annual award conferred since 1960 and announced in the nation’s capital each January).

Of course, it was not included in the recent Top 100 list. It is probably unknown to many readers - a sign of how we move through cultural touchstones and social interests at a pace. However, it remains in my literary canon of influential and important books. And, in some ways, it is a book to read in these turbulent and uncertain times as it serves as a reminder of the extraordinary lives ordinary people live; lives that build the character of a nation despite the political headwinds of the day.