Mourne: saving the corn

It was in the long ago. I was off on my hike.

The woman of the house waved to me as I passed the last cottage on the moor. She had often refreshed me, set me up for my hike with cups of sharp buttermilk.

The grain had been planted at seven hundred feet. Now a short but rich crop clothed the little field. All available help had been marshalled for the onslaught on the corn.

Two sons were scything round the edges. Several boys and girls were lifting and tying, while the old man, the patriarch of the clan leaned on the ditch, smoking his pipe. 

He was my friend. I stopped to pass the time of day with him. 

That was my undoing.


… more later …


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