SNIPPET: Mary Kate FERGUSON was born under the shadow of the Ox Mountains in Attymass, Co. Mayo, in 1929, the ninth child of a large farming family. When living from the smallholding proved insufficient to sustain fourteen children, Marrie's father had to take migrant work, first in Ireland and later in England. Marrie emigrated to England in the winter of 1946, where she met and married Tom WALSH, also from the West of Ireland. It took a visit to the first Irish Women Writers Workshop in 1988 to encourage her to write her charming memoir of growing up in the 1930s-early 40s in beautiful County Mayo, and she subsequently went back to live in the village community she had left many years earlier. When Marrie was growing up, the Irish Free State was in its infancy and struggling to survive. Times were tough but the sense of fellowship was strong. Her vibrant stories tell of a world where matchmaking, house masses, wakes and farewell parties for the numerous young men and women who emigrated to find work abroad take place in the midst of thatched cottages, peat fires, spring wells and mythical fairies riding on the backs of hares. Marrie wrote that villages would occasionally welcome a visit from the "travelling people," as the men were tin-smiths and masters of their craft and would make tin mugs and cans outside the houses, fix pots and pans and buckets. They would also weld and mend farm implements. But she noted - "My father would sometimes scold my mother for being over-generous (in sharing provisions) but she would say that we had a roof over our heads and enough to eat and drink, while they slept by the wayside with no place to call home. She would explain to us that the tinkers were not on the road by choice. They were once owners of houses and land but, through some misfortune, had been thrown out and had to struggle to survive, wandering through the countryside depending on charity, whilst the people who dispossessed them lived in comfort. Some householders shut the doors in their faces, while others set the dogs on them. In winter these displaced people camped on the bog roads away from houses. At least they were sure of a fire and anyone with reserve stacks of turf had to make constant trips to the bog to keep an eye on their property. We always had reserves for selling in the town in winter and it was a welcome source of income. It was stacked on the bog road for easy access and my father or brothers would sell it by the cart-load. The tinkers would assure my family that they would not pilfer from us as we were hospitable to them on their rounds. They only robbed those who showed them the door or turned the dogs on them. In the cold weather their favourite expression to passers-by was 'T' was a cold night in the tent, Sir.' We used to pity them. They were a hardy race of people. The women of the MAHON family had beautiful golden wavy hair reaching to their waists, and on the coldest, frostiest morning could be seen washing their tresses in the running water of the stream or river. They never used a towel to dry hair but squeezed the excess water out, tossing their crowning glory in the wind, and letting nature do the rest. They would eventually depart, leaving behind the usual mess to be cleaned away by the villagers and dumped out of harm's way. The villagers would say 'Good riddance,' and hope that they chose another location next time round."