It was a much simpler time back then, when people had less, but valued it more. The curse of emigration still blighted the land. Many of our brightest and best were forced to depart these shores and seek fame and fortune in foreign climes. Most succeeded. Some failed. And a few left, never to return.

However, it was at Christmas that the thoughts of everyone turned longingly to home. Those who could afford it, journeyed back to spend the festive season with family and friends. Others wrote, and stuffed a few pounds into the envelope. The occasional parcel, especially from America, was much appreciated.

Meanwhile, here at home, preparations for the great day continued, and the whole place was usually a buzzing hive of activity.

A longstanding tradition was the whitewashing of the outside of the house. Himself took charge of all exterior operations, mixing and measuring the lime and water to the required consistency and handing out the worn coarse brushes used for administering the whitewash to the walls.

“You missed a bit there.” he would proclaim, having cast a critical eye over our feeble efforts. He dived in enthusiastically, swirling the brush in the tub of whitewash and splashing all and sundry as he attacked the bare spot.. He usually emerged white from head to toe as we collapsed in uncontrollable fits of laughter.

Herself arrived to investigate the cause of all the hilarity and immediately banished him to the glaise bhui at the side of the house to rinse himself down before he might frighten the neighbours. She picked up a brush and, leading by example, she soon had us painting as expertly as if we were decorating the Sistine Chapel itself.

Inside, the house would be spotless. She had scrubbed and polished, and scrubbed again. Pots and pans were scoured until they gleamed. Sugawn chairs were sponged down with warm water. The flagstone floor was washed and brushed repeatedly and restored to all its former colour and sheen so that you could eat your dinner off it.. The good ware was taken down from the dresser, washed and dried and carefully replaced. A new tablecloth was spread over the deal table in the middle of the kitchen, and fresh blinds were replaced in all the windows until she had the place looking like a little palace.

When the cleaning and whitewashing was completed we were sent off through the countryside in search of holly and ivy and laurel leaves which would be used to decorate the kitchen. Competition was fierce among us to see who could find a branch of holly with the most red berries, or the greenest and longest strand of ivy which could be draped around the Sacred Heart picture over the fireplace. Christmas trees were not in fashion at the time, but diligent searching might often unearth a sprig of mistletoe. This was a prize asset, and the finder was certain to be rewarded with a modest treat.

The next item on the festive agenda was the Christmas shopping or “bringing home the Christmas” as it was called. Shops closed early on Christmas Eve and remained closed for most of the following week.

Himself was up early in the morning, cleaning out the cowhouse and throwing a sop of hay to the cattle. He ate a second duck egg for breakfast and, having shaved, changed in to his good suit. He then tackled the pony and put up the seat and guards on the common car.

Meanwhile, herself was painstakingly drawing up a list of essentials to be purchased from the local shopkeepers. With the inventory completed, she donned her Sunday coat and scarf and, warning us to behave ourselves while she was gone, she climbed aboard the cart and took up her customary position on the high seat. Himself sat on the rider of the cart and gave the reins a deft flick that sent the little pony into a slow trot. Off they went, herself regally surveying all from her lofty perch and giving a perfunctory wave to passers-bye, while he puffed contentedly on his pipe and studied with keen interest the fields and pasturelands of neighbouring farms.

Arriving in town, he found a suitable spot in which to tether the pony. Parking was not a problem and traffic-jams were unheard of. He helped her down from the high seat and made arrangements to meet her back in the same place at a specified time. She mentally added a couple of hours to the time agreed, having learned from previous experiences.

Setting his cap at a jaunty angle, himself headed up the main street and went about his business. First port of call was to the local blacksmith where he owed for a set of shoes for the pony. He then called in to the provision store and purchased a sack of yellow meal which would be mixed in with sliced turnips and mangolds and used as a “mess” for the cows. He also bought a new enamel bucket, as he had dented the old one when he aimed a half-hearted kick at the slumbering sheepdog that morning - and missed.

His third and final destination was the local public house. He called for a pint and was presented with a flowing flagon of creamy porter accompanied by a small whiskey from the top shelf, “on the house.” Soon he was involved in jovial conversation with numerous neighbours, friends and acquaintances as they proceeded to celebrate Christmas in a manner befitting the occasion.

Herself was also busy as she visited various shops in quest of the many items on her list. Tea and sugar were a priority. Also a four-stone bag of flour for baking, and a dozen of stout for fear of visitors.

She had plenty of milk and butter and eggs and bacon and vegetables - all home produced. She bought biscuits and jam and jelly and sweet cake and red lemonade and a barm brack. She called to the butcher for a bit of mutton, and to the draper for new gansies and stockings for the young ones, and a pair of long-johns for himself. (and he most probably needed them!) She also called to a certain establishment and surreptitiously collected the cardboard box full of “purties” that had been ordered and paid for in instalments over the preceding weeks - but the less said about that here, the better.

In every shop she was given a little present in appreciation of her custom over the previous twelve months. It might be only a tin of biscuits, a quarter of tea or a paper bag of sweets, but it was the goodwill gesture itself that was important. Each gift was given with a good heart, and was graciously accepted in the same spirit. This tradition is now sadly in decline with the arrival of the big multi-national supermarkets who will enter you in a free draw and leave the rest to luck..

Anyway, with her purchases completed, she set about finding himself. She didn’t have far to look. There he was, propping up the bar in his favourite establishment and regaling his cronies with some amusing anecdote. She feigned disapproval, but was coaxed in to joining the other women in the snug and partaking of a small glass of sweet sherry while the men folk continued debating weighty matters out in the public bar.

She sat and exchanged gossip with the other ladies for a while, and then persuaded himself that it was time they were getting home. The pony stood patiently where they had left him earlier. She resumed her position on the high seat. He scrambled up on to the rider amid all the sacks and the bags and the parcels and gave the pony his head before slowly nodding off into a peaceful snooze. The little animal, realizing that he was now in sole charge of transportation, immediately turned and headed sure-footedly for home where a warm stable and a generous feed of oats awaited him.

The rattle of the common car over cobbles in the yard alerted us to the fact that they were back from town. We rushed out and assisted in the unloading of the messages, picking and poking and trying to guess the various contents, while himself untackled the pony and made sure he was stabled and fed

After the tea, and as dusk fell, we all gathered round to light the Christmas Candle and place it in the window. This solemn task was usually performed by the youngest member of the family. We blessed ourselves and himself offered up a prayer; “Go mbeirimid beo ar an am seo aris” May we still be alive this time next year. We then trooped out and watched as, one by one, candles were lit in the windows of all the neighbouring houses.

Eventually, herself called us back in and told us it was long past our bedtime. We hung our stockings at the bottom of the bed and resolved that, this year, we would stay awake long enough to see Santa. Once again we failed miserably, as nature took its inevitable course and tired young eyes drooped and finally closed in blissful slumber.

And when we awoke in the morning, he had been and gone. As usual.

We would never forget the enchantment and the magic of waking on those far-off Christmas mornings. And, as the years passed, and we slowly lost our youthful innocence and were scattered to the four corners of the earth, the magic and the mystery and the beauty of it all did not diminish.

We remembered that through the depressed and difficult years of our growing up, when the country suffered much hardship and poverty and sickness and deprivation, Santa never once failed to call to our house. And he called with kindness, tenderness, warmth, compassion and care.

But most of all, he called to us with love.