Arriving at the Lyon's residence was being at the heart of a farm, surrounded by every shade of green fields. At the back of the house were the farm sheds, housing cows and pigs, guarded by free range hens, who pretty much did their own thing, Their rent was just a couple of eggs a week, early or late. Their boss was a collie dog called Sam, who had all the animals' respect and my affection, and to no one else in particular he was just a working dog. The real boss of all bosses though was Mrs. Lyons, the alpha female of all species around here including the human ones.

In the fragmented memories that were left of my past, she must have reminded me of my grandmother. The hair tied in a bun, the spotted apron, the no-nonsense approach, the care and friendly touch, all were her hallmarks and that spirit carried itself now in this woman. She had a curious evening habit of getting too close to the range in the kitchen almost burning herself with the heat, leaving her legs several shades of red. This would encourage her to start scratching furiously leaving great welts on her skin which in turn fostered rashes that were never given time to heal. These had been her only habits and vice for she smoked little and drank less and was content with her husband, Michael, who was a good man that didn't say much.

He would sit in his favourite seat in the kitchen every evening, watching anything that moved on the television. This was a man who did not chase comfort for he believed he already had it, even his hard wooden chair offered little as he sat contentedly in front of the telly. This was his only luxury and the greatest invention to come into his life in the September of his years. Within spitting distance of him was his spittoon (metal dish), to catch the liquid balls mixed with tobacco that he wrestled from his mouth. As I would watch the programmes with him, the quiet parts would be chimed by the sound of spit hitting metal. No one raised an eyebrow on this time-honoured tradition, except me. In the end, my eyebrow stayed put. Michael's life was his work, his family, his telly, and all not in any particular order, and that family was one wife and eleven children.

Most of the grown up children were working in London, New York, Dublin, and Galway. At home were Helen, Clare, Nuala, and Noel who was about my age. Then there was Brendan, working in the local factory who was in his early twenties and Tommy, who was the oldest and heir apparent for another tradition, the family farm. It showed in the fussing around he would do. I liked them all, though not on the first night.

That first evening as it ticked towards midnight, I became a little anxious as to what the sleeping arrangements were going to be. I had never shared a bed in my life save for a few fleas, and space seemed in short supply around here. My nice pyjamas that were waiting in my small bag was the most important clothing to me and bare skin rarely showed between me putting them on or off. Perhaps an exaggerated pantomime of low self-esteem, but that was me then, and finally bed time came where I would be tested.

The lads sauntered into the one bedroom meant for all of them and the girls into theirs. I followed the lads and found that the room was the bed from wall to wall that was fronted only by a small cabinet. In their turn the lads stripped to their birthday suits and hopped under the covers nestled against each other, making small talk while waiting for the light to be turned out and me to turn in. I felt the struggle of panic fighting with reason clamming up my head. The choice was to feel like a sissy, maybe called a girl, or pretend this was as natural as it felt to them. The pyjamas lay in my hand, gripped tightly as if they were a life jacket from a sinking ship. Sink or swim, ready or not, I hopped into bed without it, between two naked men pressed against me on both sides who were already on their way to sleep almost unaware that I was even there. I lay with anxiety that lasted a few more minutes until sleep took it all away.

Waking up, untouched, unhurt, still alive and kicking, the next day was a change of sorts. As I rolled out of bed several hours after everyone else, I felt more confident now and even had a sense of belonging wash over me. The next night I was in bed sooner than anybody and asleep faster. I was in someone else's house but it was now my home too.

There was lots to do around here. I was not asked or expected to do any work, but guilt would have forced my hand anyway even if I didn't want to, which I did. So one day I trailed Michael to a field where he was weeding potatoes. I hunkered down alongside as if I was a man poised at the starting line of a race and decided I could weed faster than him.

The drum rolls started beating in my head pushing me to give it my all and I set to the task with great fervour. I don't think the old man even noticed much or just didn't show it, but I got off to a great start driven by the conviction that anybody that was sixty years older than me and then some, was not going to out weed me. Mr. "Retiree" picked up the pace and closed the gap, and even looked as if he was going slower to add insult to injury. He moved past me with a certain grace and he delivered a Mona Lisa smile marked with a question of taunt or sympathy. I wilted under the pressure and fell over in mock submission, hinting there will be another day. I tottered off to check out the animals, at least they were no threat to my pride. The pig shed seemed like fun.

Over the next few weeks, I became quite friendly with the pigs and even had pet names for them, Oliver and Hardy, named after my favourite comedy duo on television.

These pigs were all personality and just as much fun. Over supper one night Oliver was about to get unwanted attention because of his obesity. Around here it was one of the first things that could get you killed.

The old man intoned, "He's ready," though I'm sure Oliver didn't think so.

"We can do it tomorrow," Tommy said without looking up from his cooked chicken, who had only been killed a few days before. Within an hour of her demise, she had been stripped of her plumage, drained of her blood, hung on a wall, and I had seen the whole thing. Her end too had started off with a casual remark of "maybe chicken this week," spoken by Mrs. Lyons, and now Oliver was getting the same casual treatment. The preamble was already over, his fate sealed, and he had less than twenty-four hours to live. The worst part was, I would become one of his executioners, or at least I helped in making him meet his maker where pigs fly on weightless wings. Tommy, Brendan, a neighbour, and I, moved the next morning to get Oliver.

He was munching away on his favourite delicacy and last supper, potatoes when it all ended fifteen minutes later, held down on a table with a butchers knife at his throat, and a bucket beneath his head to catch the torrent of blood that would surely follow. It didn't quite work to plan out like that as Tommy ran the knife on it's deadly journey. Oliver leapt from the table despite being held by ropes, three men and a boy, and a fatal wound to his neck, and then ran a few hundred feet. He then looked around as if unsure whether he was still in this world or the next, sniffed the air and fell over and was dead before he hit the ground. I started crying uncontrollably. The next day, Oliver was reduced to body parts and fitted nicely into a salt barrel. Over time, bits of him would be fished out and served up for dinner, in protest, I refused the first offerings of Oliver, but as the weeks passed, I got over it and found that old Ollie was quite tasty. I was becoming a right little farmer and didn't know it.

That summer was as warm as I could remember and everything seemed good to me. I discovered out here a peacefulness that I had never felt anywhere else. One morning, I helped Tommy to dip sheep in a neighbour's field for a sanitizing yearly ritual. We set out together at five thirty a.m. to enter a twilight world I had not seen before, to a place of extraordinary beauty that can only be found in the country. A world where birds' voices just rise above a humming silence just before the new dawn, and morning mists move back their veils to an audience of one, when as a child, I became enchanted by its spell. Shimmering droplets of dew covered spider webs that cloaked the yellow sage that was everywhere, creating a beautiful alien landscape. By mid-morning, summer lambs played in the grass while their mothers looked on in lazy boredom, and a mare looked proud and magnificent as she lovingly nudged at her sleeping foal that was her very own creation. Well, she did have a little help from a friend.

These were sights I could not write about unless I was there, their smells are always with me and when chaos threatens to overwhelm me, I go once again to remind me that heaven really is here all the time. And if there was still doubt, in the shadows behind me lay a cluster of trees on guard beside a pond so still it mirrored their image, it's reflection broken now and again from the drops of water gently pulling away from their leaves. Ancient walls and hedge grows cast their mysteries around the ruins of an old castle in the distance, its battles and troubles long carried off into the wind tunnels of time. Now, chiseled stone was all there was to remind us of who had lived there, a lasting footprint of their being here and a place now walked only by their ghosts. The castle's walls cast shadows over a river bank that was once the life force of it, still serving up the odd unwary ancestral salmon to the old man of the cottage nearby, a cottage built more recently of stone carved by those same men over a thousand years before. As I took in the sights and sounds of this day, I felt deeply moved and would be changed forever by the peace of it all only I didn't know it then. Other days too like these would soothe my troubled soul and make me over time, through trial and error, a man to be content. Without moments like these, that journey would never have begun.

On the last week of July, another son came to stay for a couple of weeks, Michael Lyons Junior or Mick to all who knew him. Tall, good looking, magnetic personality, with a pied piper charm that men wanted to follow, if only to get the remnants of the left over ladies who followed him the most. For an impressionable child, he became my mentor and best friend. Even into adulthood when I was not so impressed by many people, he would always be one of the few that I was. As soon as we met he took an immediate liking to me and wanted to know all about my background, it's sketchy detail cementing our bond further and one that would never be broken. He paid me the greatest sign of our friendship many years later by giving his son my name and I hope we both live up to his credit of it. But for now he brought me everywhere.

On a date, at the bog, at the local dance, shooting rabbit, and down to his favourite pub, I was there with him. With his mates making hay when the sun shined, or shooting pool when it didn't, I was there with him. Even in the back seats of cars where he was making out with the girls, I was in the front seat trying not to laugh or be noticed and became quite good at it. My first drink was organized by him at a local bar and showed a side to me that I did not know was there. It took only one drink to change me, get drunk, sing songs, suffer a hangover and make me swear never to do it all over again, a promise I found hard to keep.

I was eleven years old even if I was closer to twelve. If I needed clothes or shoes, Mick bought them, if I needed money, Mick gave it. Even though I would never ask, I accepted his generosity without question and grateful that I didn't have to. He listened when I spoke and in his eyes sometimes I could see the hopelessness within knowing that he couldn't help me beyond the boundaries of his own life. For me it was more than enough, he just never knew it. The joy of his company and the happiness that I felt with this family only made my time with them seem shorter and before I even noticed it was time to go back to the school. I was not too bothered for I knew Ching was really gone and how bad could it be? That question would soon be answered.

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