Will’s World: Why we farmers move to our own tune
© Richard Stanton Have you ever tried to move a piano? I have, and I can tell you that it isn’t a lot of fun.
In fact, I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that on the universal fun scale it hovers somewhere around outdoor lambing in a snowstorm, receiving a tax investigation from HMRC, or watching Wales get severely beaten by England in the Six Nations.
See also: 10 tips to keep your Ifor Williams trailer road legal
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On this most recent occasion, though, we only had to move it from one room to another, so it wasn’t quite as traumatic as all that.
The present Mrs Evans and I just about managed to do it without irreparably damaging the thing itself, any small children who happened to get in the way, or quite remarkably, our marriage.
Ponying up
But it wasn’t always this easy. Gather round, and I’ll tell you all the tale of the farmers, the piano, the Ifor Williams trailer and the terraced house in the middle of Ellesmere Port.
(Admittedly, the title needs work if I’m going to sell the film rights to Netflix.)
It started, as so many of these things do, with a daughter’s wish to her doting father. As she was working so hard at her lessons, could she have her own piano? Could she?
It might have been a lot worse, I thought. It could have been a pony she’s asking for, so I readily – and naively – agreed.
We quickly got onto eBay and found a stunning walnut art deco-style edition that wasn’t too far away, and managed to successfully purchase it for the bargain price of £70. So far, so good.
But how would we get it home? A piano-moving firm? Come off it, we’re farmers – that would be admitting weakness of the highest order. “We’ll just take the stock trailer,” I stalwartly declared.
Over the next few days, though, everyone I mentioned this plan to had uttered a similar response, with the same pained expression on their face: “Oooh, they’re heavy, you know. Are you sure you’ll manage it?”
“Manage it? They can’t be that bad!” I scoffed, rolling my eyes in disdain at these milksop naysayers.
Quest of honour
Finally, the day arrived. I gathered my band of merry men (me, the old man, and Keith, who did a bit of work for us at the time), and off we set bravely northwards in our truck and trailer.
After a short journey, we rattled into a residential street in the centre of Ellesmere Port. We quickly realised that they don’t see the likes of us very often, as curtains twitched in every direction.
Undaunted, we headed into the seller’s house, and I immediately understood why moving a piano has been such a popular comic trope since the days of Charlie Chaplin and Laurel and Hardy. They are heavy, you know.
Still, the three of us put our backs to it, and with valiant endeavour managed to manoeuvre it out of the house and on to the street, watched by a rapidly growing live audience.
But every good story needs a villain, and so the Trailer Ramp of Doom lay ominously before us, stretching ever upwards into the darkness like the road to Mordor itself.
Defeat stared us in the eye, but would we be beaten? No! We summoned our last reserves of strength and courage, and inched the thing up and into the trailer.
We headed back to the farm, and a very happy daughter, like conquering heroes. And they all lived happily ever after… until it came time to move the bloody thing again.