I have fond memories of

 The Turning bridges: there were five such on the town section of the canal: at Sugar Island; Monaghan Street; Ballybot; and Buttercrane, where the rail crossed the canal; and Dublin Bridge. This was to allow barge traffic bound for Portadown. A bell would sound in the Harbour Master’s Office to alert people. School children used the cry, ‘The bridges were closed!’ as an excuse for their lack of punctuality.

Bob Brown turned the key in the latch of his front door, gripped the lion’s-head knocker and pushed the door firmly to make sure it was locked.  He felt a strong tickle in the top of his nose and reached into his overcoat pocket for his big Irish linen handkerchief.  He sneezed into it violently.  A few seconds later he blew into the hankie, wiped it back and forward under his nose, feeling wetness on his upper lip. He coughed into the hankie several times and looked into it to check for blood but there was none. He crumpled the cloth and stuffed it back into his pocket.  Across the road, the herring-man clicked his tongue loudly to start his horse up the hill. He looked across at Bob but offered no greeting.  Bob wasn’t too concerned about that.  The man was one of the herring-chokers from Rosmoyle, and they were a queer lot.  Most of them didn’t like Catholics but it didn’t stop them taking Catholic money.  Bob was Church of Ireland  himself, but he saw no reason why other people couldn’t worship the same God in their own way.  None of them had ever done him any harm.  And what did all the Press-Button-Bs say about his church? – “Only a paper wall between them and Rome”.