a cara.......toronto is recovering from its weekend of chaos.....the city lost control as the the world leaders gathered for what ever it is they talk about in masse...billions were spent and police assumed illegal powers that has torontonians up in arms.....as i wathched this first hand i began to dwell on greener times.......mayo is magical ....not just because of its unique blend of urban and untamed wilderness.....the barreness of north mayo.....the tranquility of the reek and its marine footstool ...clew bay.....the partry mountains....and the limestone bed of lough mask......in this the sculpting of my youth was chiseled.....and as i began to drift....i began to think of cherished times......walking out to drimneen......in my class in st pats i befriended a lad from that village named sean omaille.....sean was a big boy for his age and lived with his mother in drimneen......his father died when he was quite young ......sean invited me to his house in drimneen......we walked out past the station.....i can still hear all the sounds....sense the smlls coming from morans as we walked .....saleen was on the right.....and the texaco oil storage plant was next to lacys.......the fields in those days were just that....wide open fields ....with rushes and wild grass fluttering in the western breezes.....there were no houses.....on either side of the road......until we got mcnicholes's ........a patrick lally had a farm on the otherside....i believe later jim kelly bought that farm....then we turned left in a boreen long and winding.....flanked on either side by wild watrlogged fields....speckled in white bog cotton.....at least thats what we called these white soft tufts thatb grew on these grasses......soon we turned right as this wonderful quiet unpaved quaint road meadered through the untamed natural terrible beauty.....ah!....ahead i noticed the blue smoke spiralling towards the sky from four chimneys.....i know one family was brownes.....the other two i knew then but time has erased their memory.....and then up ahead on a sort of raised hill was the omaille homestaed.....a beautiful white washed home ....with a slate roof which was unusual in those days for country houses .....as in those days thatch was the roof of fashion and practicality......mrs omaille was a jovial womanwith an ever bubbling smile.....and as i entered the house she bade me a sincere genuine welcome.....the kitchen was a typical countryhouse kitchen.....it was the main room of the house with a big open hearth.....ablaze in turf fire.....it was enviting and warm.....i remember thisfirst visit very well ...as mrs omaille was churning milk......she cranked the crank handle....and asked me if i would like to take a turn.....i stood for a moment in awe of this and then delighted in mmy shift on the handle.....after some time ....she opened the drum.....and began to scoop out ...the the harvest of its magic..... fresh country butter.......she shaped it into a loaf style on a plate.....and offered me a taste on fresh baked soda bread......mrs omaille had one other unique characteristic....she was irish spaeaking......she told me that she was born in tourmakeady.....since her husband had died she lived with sean....and a female relation from tourmakeady.....an alarm clock ticked strongly on a sideboard....i still can see its big "siver"bells.....soon afterwards sean and i went to the barn.....filled with hay....here we climbed on to the loft and dived down onto the hay below.....narrowly missing hens that came into the barn to lay.......later sean and i gathered the eggs.....i was amazed at how mrs omaille would examine the eggs.....often saying this one is a clocker......meaning it was for hatching.....after some time on the farm i then made my way into castlebar and mchale road leaving the magic of the farm behind......i went to this farm many times.....and many times i brought my old and dear friend perty whittaker with me.......we would spend time at their bog.....which was down from the house ......the omailles had carved a trail from their house through the fern and scorce to the bog and often sean .....perty and myself would play cowboys on this old chiseled trail.....after much playing mrs omaille would boil up some fresh eggs ....and we'd have a feast of soda bread ...eggs and ....buttermilk.....she would give us a can to take some home.....one time when she had a brood of chicks....she gave us a chick each to take home.....time went bye....sean omaille stopped going to school and trips to his farm came to an end.....later as i drove by mcnicholasses i always looked up that road to that place and the four houses of drimneen ....i noticed the smoke still wafting to the heavens.....my mind drifted to those happy moments........spent on the omaille farm.....i remember corleys on main road side as their land bordered the omailles.....the stories mrs omaille told me both in irish and english.....she explained why farm houses had a row of trees planted on one side to break the weather.....throughout my life i have oftened looked back fondly ......and still can see mrs omaille sitting on her rocking chair....singing old laments and comailles.....i see the white house on the hill....with a winding stream of smoke......ican smell the fresh smells of manure....hear the cackling of chickens.....the quacking of ducks.....and hissing of geese......and sense the taste of fresh country butter on hot soda bread....there was a time ....not too long ago....when life was simpler..... the rambling house when i was young....tunes were played and songs were sung.....stories told and funny recitations ...an old one in the corner would sit......drawing the hearthstone with a stick......you smell the burning lamp oil.....and the poter......there wasnt any electric light......just a turf fire burning bright........the parrafin lamp hung ...down from the rafter.......i wish i could go back in time.....to that simpler way of life..... ......in thiose days ....after dusk when the chores were done.....neighbours gathered around the the stone flagged kitchen.....they sat on forms ....and chairs.....maybe on the callacht.....with the kithchen illumined ....by the light of the fire....and a parrafin lamp.....balanced by the perfume of burning turf.....and perhaps walnut plug......there was music and song ....and stories that amde your hair stand...... ......and as i smile in gentle thoughts of life ....in castlebar....i am disturbed by the loud music of the television....so you think you can dance......god night......sean boy.... ....la eile sceil eile..... ..............its july 1 ....canada day........the queen is in town......i think i'll listen to some liam clancy and tommy makem...... .....tog go bog e....... thank you .... oliver killeen