From "Barefoot in Mullyneeny"
8th February 2017
The setting sun picked up the shadows of the ridges, brown, straight as corduroy, a work of art, I thought.
That was half a century ago. He is long dead, the man who didn’t know he was an artist. The mountain face is covered with a coniferous slum of forestry. There are neat paths through it and picnic tables. But you can’t see Lough Erne, and tall trees cover the field where once I watched a small sensitive man coping the lea, with the skill and the pride of centuries.
