All along the way on the Irish trip, the bus depots sold copies of the Irish Independent, or The Irish Times. At the University in Galway, The London Times covered world news better than the Irish sheets. However, the national press offered a better feel for local happenings and business reports.

Before leaving home, I weaned the calves from the young cows and postponed lamb shipment. I had forgotten the ranch until I began to read the livestock news in the Irish newspapers. Much to my astonishment, the August 17 edition of the Irish Independent plagiarized our market conditions by printing the following headline on page four: "Lamb Prices Take a New Tumble."

The rest was familiar, too: " Top for light lambs is 75 pence per pound in a lurching, rudderless market, careening from one crisis to the next as tragic as grain and cattle prices." And then the final clincher: " In spite of small domestic supplies, prices remain under pressure, because Scottish lambs are beginning to hit the market to lower prices."

The next afternoon I sat on a station wagon tailgate and talked to a farmer named Timmy O'Brien. Mr. O'Brien owns the 160 acres containing the site of a 5000 year-old tomb, Poulnabrone Dolmen. Instead of joining mobs of other visitors to see one of the archeological wonders of the world, we fell into a spell of commiseration that'd make the ties of fellowship at a 50th class reunion look as cold as the crowds on a New York subway.

He sits by his gate to the tomb all summer by a five gallon bucket, waiting for donations. During the busy summer season, 30,000 tourists a month come to see the tomb. The day I was there the bottom of the bucket was barely covered at 4 p.m.

Mr. O'Brien said, "I summer 80 cows, 90 sheep and 90,000 tourists on 160 acres. All I break even on is my wool, as the price per fleece pays the shearing expense." As we talked, I realized he recognized the sound of a pound coin hitting the bucket. Ridiculous as it was for big tour groups to pass by without dropping so much as a pence in the bucket, he thanked each donor and gave the free riders an impassive stare.

News accounts of the horse business sounded better than the sheep and cattle deal. A story in the Irish Times reported the Queen of England was sending her mares for the first time to be bred by an Irish stallion for 150,000 pounds ($200,000) per service. She also planned to enter her racing stable in the Irish Sweepstakes for the first time.

I may need to remind you the Royalty haven't been hanging out in the Irish Republic since the beginning of Independence in 1924. Lord Mountbatten's assassination in the late 1960s by Irish terrorists off the coast of Sligo gave the Court a strong message they were better off staying on their side of the Irish Sea.

Today Irish newspaper columnists make great fun of the English royalty. One columnist wrote how amazed he was Prince Philip's IQ was as high as it is, considering the amount of inbreeding in the Royal Family and the amount of scofflaws His Highness makes daily in the news.

In the same column, Prince Philip was quoted as saying a fuse box at a factory he visited, "looked like an Indian made it." Catching a nudge by his secretary, the Prince explained, "I mean the way the North American Indians were portrayed as fools in the old Western movies. I probably should say the fuse box looks like it was made by a cowboy."

Please allow me to share the scene the morning I read the story; my chair faces a sun lighted bay window, framed in white lace curtains. A French coffeemaker provides the caffeine on the breakfast table. A blue china toast plate holds three slices of hot Irish soda bread. The light blue breakfast plate rests by an Irish linen napkin. If the polished flatware has nationality, Gaelic Cutlery is a safe guess. The only thing English on the table is the recipe used to make the bitter orange marmalade by the plate.

I reread the last line three times before taking Prince Philip's side. I thought, "Prince, ol boy, I know you play polo. Also, I suppose your mother's racing stable often catches your fancy. Once up on the Scottish border close to Hadrian's Wall, a postman pointed where your family rode to the foxes. But I'd never guessed you knew cowboys well enough to know how bad we'd bungle screwing in a fuse, much less hanging a fuse box."

I didn't bring much material home about the tomb on Mr. O'Brien's place. However, I fear the way the markets have turned against the Noelkes and O'Briens of this world, you'll hear a lot more about Poulnabrone than about us.