Iriseoir Fise Some farmers mind their animals like eggs. When I meet Seán Ó Murchú on a cold crisp January morning he is throwing a generous gabhál of hay to his precious cows. He rests on a gate and admires them as they munch on the gift of last Autumn s meadow. His animals are warm and comfortable, sheltered from the stinging winds of winter that whip down off the mountain. Seán is also taking shelter, cocooning from the threat of the virus. I stay at home and keep to myself, because you won’t find it written across people’s foreheads at all if they are carrying this virus.