As we came to a high hill overlooking Carlingford Bay and bringing the Mountains of Mourne close into view, he blessed himself and shaking his frail head, he said, "It is still standing. The mother must be home, I can see the candle-light in the window." "Listen." He said suddenly, as he caught hold of my arm."Do you hear the father up amoung the sheep in the mountains? I can hear him play his tin-whistle." As we came up beside the door of the old house, he said, "You will come in for a wee heat from the fire, and maybe the father will have a wee drop of poitin to warm the cockles of your heart." I tied up my pony to the stump of a tree. As I did so, I saw him go through the crumbling wall of the cottage. I followed through the creaking door. He was right, the mother was there and she was twisting the wheel of the bellows to kindle the large turf fire. "So you did come home the long journey from England." she said. As she rose to greet her son she was a bundle of skin and bone, with a snow-white map of hair falling about her stooped shoulders. She was wearing a ragged, torn black shawl. "If only the walls of this old house could put into writing the memories of the days when you were all young here, it would fill a book that would be so golgen that even heaven would want to read it. At that moment the two sisters came through the two walls. They looked tired, dressed in long white dresses, which showed traces of the clay of the grave. "My darling Kitty and Brigit", the mother cried as she hugged them to her. "You two have come a long way to be with the family on this special night. Let me look at the both of you. You look a little tired, but still the two prettiest girls in the country. I have thought of all the family every night in the grave," she said. "It will soon be all over. I know the good Lord will find in us the love for him that these walls can testify to. There was never a night before we went to bed that we didn’t kneel before His and Our Lady’s pictures and pray for ourselves and our neighbours, with the rosary beads in our hands. Your father will be home soon," she said. "I can hear him on the mountains playing his tin-whistle to his sheep." Suddenly the missing brother came through the wall. He was drenched with the rain. "God love you, Peter my son," the mother said. "You are like a drenched duck, but to me you are a piece of my heart. Will all of you sit around the fire? Listen, here comes your father! I can hear him singing like the thrush in the morning air, by the sound of him he has been sampling the poitin he used to make up the mountain." And how true her words were. He came through the door. "God bless all here," he said laughing. "It is raining cats and dogs and there is nothing but the sight of the old cottage and this big fire and you all here, makes this night of rain, wind and storm the happiest night of my life" he was a big rugged-looking man with a big resounding laugh. Leaving two bottles of poitin on the table, he said, "I don’t know how the peelers missed them. They were under the bed in the old shack. It is good to see all the family here. When I was coming down the mountain I couldn’t believe my ears. There was the sound of the ‘Fiddler’ McGee and him tearing the heart of his fiddle among the ruins of the house. It could be an act of charity to invite him over for a wee heat at the fire and a bit of crack. You will run over for him, Michael, gasun?" "That I will," Michael said, and I will ask "The Thrush" over here as well, for as I was coming here I saw him in the ruins of his old house. And as the father handed around the mugs of poitin Michael came back with "The Thrush" and the fiddler who was limping and at the same time blessing all the family for their kindness. "This rheumatism has been in my leg for years. It has me in agony. Even in the grave the thought of it drove me insane." "Do you not see who is here. It is none other than "The Thrush" and look at him. He is wet to the bones. Won’t you have a mug of poitin," the father said. "It will put the life back into your old bones and when you are warmed up maybe you will give us a few bars of a song." The thrush chuckled. "It was worth coming all the way from the big city of London to have a heat at this turf fire and a mug of the cratur. That reminds me didn’t I see yourself Kitty and Brigit as waitresses in a fine hotel in London about ten years ago." Brigit answered, as she sipped her drink. " It was called the Eagle Hotel. I remember the day yourself and a friend of yours from the bog, called the "Brains"Mc Cann, he was called that because his mammy always said that he was the only one of the family who had any brains, the rest of them were dunces, I remember when I saw the both of you I felt a terrible sense off fear. Fear that you would recognise me by my family’s nickname, "the buck goat Murphy’s and I had to hide in the kitchen until you were gone." Kitty said, "That was my one great fear in England, that someone from here would recognise me by that name because my father kept a buck-goat." The father laughed. "Joey, the buck goat was his name and mane’s the loaf of bread he put for us on the table." "That was one of the greatest curses that plagued the Irish race," the thrush said. "I was called nothing else but "The Thrush" because I had a few notes in my head. And the brother Johnny was called the Jordie because he worked in Wales." For a while the mother laughed saying, "When I was young I was called the "fairy", and my husband here was called the "skinflint". The neighbours here were cursed with nicknames, but it was a necessary evil, for if you did not know their nicknames, you would never find them, there was so many people with the same name." Suddenly there was a rap on the door. "I bet you it is the "Dingo" White," Michael said. "I saw him on the road as I came here." "Let the poor man in out of the rain." the mother said. And Michael did so. He was the most like a leprechaun anyone could see. He was small and skinny, with a roguish glint in his deep set eyes. "Goodnight to all of you," he said. "It is a terrible night to be looking for a place to warm oneself, and depending on the goodness of the woman of the house to give him a wee drop of whiskey or a cup of tea to warm the cockles of his heart." " You chose the right house," the mother said. "Sit over there by the fire and father will give you a mug of poitin." "It is give you the door, I should do," Michael said. "I remember the time I got the first shilling of my life for my confirmation, and you met me with your long sorrowful face, telling me your mother was dead, and there wasn’t a shilling in the house to buy a drop of porter to wake her, and that very night as I was on my way to the wake, there she was as right as rain, straggling home from the pub, singing "The Bold Fenian Men"." "Now, go easy with the tongue," the "Dingo" said. "Before the Lord you will be one of these days, and it is not to your advantage to let the Lord know that you kept spite in you all these years. My advice is to let sleeping dogs rest in peace." Stepping out onto the floor, the mother said, "Will you hold your whist, we will have a bit of music." "I’m your man, the "fiddler" McGee said, as he tuned up his fiddle. "What will it be, a jig or a reel?" "I’m in the mood for a reel," the old woman said. And soon the four walls of the old house was filled with laughter and the music and the tapping of the feet of the dancers. The father played his tin whistle and the "Thrush" sang his joyful songs of happy memories. Time seemed to fly, and as the old woman pulled back the old-age curtains on the window, she said, "I can see the hazy light of day looking out from beyond the night’s dark clouds. We will have a cup of tea and we will please the Lord and His good Mother by going back to the graves with our rosary beads in our hands." As I watched the family and their friends enjoy themselves dancing and singing and praying, I truly knew Gods goodness was in all their spirits. As they prayed, I must have gone to sleep, for when I was awakened with the crowing of a rooster in the neighbouring farm, I stared in wonder around the four silent walls of the old house and was mystified, for a little while ago there was the spirits of happy people, now alas there was nothing but bleak, isolated emptiness. In the large fireplace the smouldering turf and logs assured me that I wasn’t dreaming. As the old woman had said, "The longest lifetime is but the passing of seconds." It was the life after death that matters, she said, for it was forever.