SNIPPET: ..."As we were a large family and were not the possessors of a big farm, it was essential to cultivate every bit of arable land possible. We were surrounded by acres of common land and "shroicks" or rough land, where heather and wild grass and rushes grew in abundance. Certain families had a share in this so-called no-man's-land with only a bog-hole or stream to mark its boundaries. So when cattle were put to graze on these strips of land, they had to be constantly watched to keep them confined to their own piece of grazing. It was a monotonous chore for us children so it was up to ourselves to find a way of relieving the boredom. There were plenty of bog holes to jump, and also flax holes. These were relics of bygone times, when flax was grown locally and had to be seasoned in deep holes in the marshes. They were now death traps, rumoured to be bottomless, and we were forever being warned against playing near these swally-holes, as they were called. We were also told that a monster called the alpluchor lived in those holes and that he was always waiting for man or beast to drop in so he could feast on their hearts, his favourite food. We listened, but we did not always obey. The hot summer sun baked the crust that formed on the green, spongy, bubbling mass of fungi in the holes. It was like a witch's cauldron, and my brothers and I would take a running jump, landing in the middle of this crust. It would sink with the weight of our bodies, and up again it would pop, propelling us to the other side. We had found a perfect trampoline, and as we were out of sight of our homes, our parents were not aware of the danger we courted. When the small rivers ran shallow in hot water, we would build a "courigh," or barrier, with stones and "clauber" -- damp pieces of grassy earth from the river bank - to stay the flow of water. We would put lime into a sack, then secure the sack between the stones with the bag mouth opening into the flow of water. When the water volume built up, fish unwittingly became trapped in the bag. The lime stunned them and we would take the trout home to be fried in home-made butter ..." - Excerpt, "An Irish Country Childhood, A Bygone Age Remembered" (biography), Marrie Walsh, dedicated to the memory of her late husband, Tom. Marrie was born under the shadow of the Ox Mountains in Attymass, Co. Mayo, in 1929, the ninth child of a large farming family.