SNIPPET: ... "The countryside offered us all kinds of delicacies: blackberries, bilberries, nuts, wild raspberries, sloes and haws. On a Sunday morning after early mass, men and youth would meet and go hunting across the moors and bogs, not for sport but for the pot. There were grouse, partridge, pheasant, rabbits and hares; also wild duck and geese, and woe betide anyone who killed out of season. There was a strict country code which, in latter years, as tourists came, was ignored ... Farmers eventually forbade all trespassing on their property in order to the protect the wild life. We would fish the rivers and lakes with home-made fishing rods and live bait. We would use heather to make besoms for sweeping the house floors and barns. Rushes would be used as bedding for the animals. At a certain time of year, when the hens were about to moult, we hastened this procedure by keeping them in darkness and feeding them on boiled nettles. We would cut ling heather and carry great big bundles on our backs from the bogs. This would be used for bedding and the hens would gorge themselves, thus speeding up the process of growing new feathers. We made use of most things that grew wild around our area, and learned from older people about country lore. A massive sycamore tree grew in the field above the house and one of my brothers would climb into its tall branches and put a rope over the stoutest limb. We would then secure a piece of suitable wood to the end of the rope and up and away we would go on the swing, into the air and over the rooftop of our house, back and forth, until our heads got dizzy, with everyone awaiting their turn and screaming in anticipation of the thrill of sailing over the chimneys. Mothers in the village would warn their children about accepting the challenge of a ride on our swing, but they still sneaked in for the forbidden treat. Although our main source of heat was turf, sometimes we supplemented this by using logs. We never cut down trees indiscriminately, as they were essential as protectors against the elements ... First of all, we would tell the tree the reason for cutting it down. Then we would run around to the other trees and tell them not to cry..." -- Excerpt, "An Irish Country Childhood," Marrie Walsh's memoir dedicated to her late husband, Tom. Marrie was born under the shadow of the Ox Mountains in Attymass, Co. Mayo, the ninth child of a large farming family in a village situated about seven miles from Ballina, a town on the River Moy near Killala Bay. She left Ireland in 1946, emigrating to England where she met her husband, then returning to her home community some fifty years later.