The Hogans of Glenart

I was about eight years old when my school friends, Renee and Sheila, and I approached our respective parents with the outrageous suggestion that we would be allowed go on a picnic on our own on St. Patrick's Day. Much to our surprise, we obtained permission. However, there were rules. We weren't to set out before a quarter past ten and preferably not even before half ten. We had to be home by three at the latest. The venue was Mount Merrion Woods in south Co. Dublin, not far from our homes in Blackrock. We had to promise to stay close to the start of the woods and not venture in too far. We weren't to talk to strangers and we weren't to sit on damp ground and thus cause irreparable damage to our kidneys. We willingly agreed to everything.

My youngest brother, Lorcan, had made his first Communion. As is usual, he called around to all our neighbours and friends nearby, then the sky opened and the rain came down in torrents. That finished visiting for the day. The next day was Sunday, it was a family occasion; relatives who lived some distance away came to visit. At teatime we remembered one particular lady who had not been visited my mother said it would have to wait till Monday.