Our school was three miles away, in Castlederg, and by the time it was my turn to go, the yards had to be trekked one way or other.
The first year, I was brought on the carrier seat of my sister's bicycle. Liz was a nurse and, at that time, all nurses seemed to have bicycles. So Liz and her good friend, Dympna left me at Miss Hegarty's classroom door. I didn't like school, so it was mostly a case of forcible admission, me dangling between my sister and my teacher's grip. Sometimes I escaped and was home before Liz. She would then turn the bicycle round and bring me back before Daddy knew.
Much later in life, I saw a biopic in college about Jim Thorpe, the native American Indian high jumper who won a gold medal at the Olympics for the US. He too was left to school, by pony and trap and, ran home and reached home before his 'taxi'. It rang a bell with me.
The second year I walked the three miles to St Patrick's PS. I was now in High Infants, in Mrs McGuinness' class. Back in the very early 1950's there were very few cars or buses, so Shank's Mare and the bicycle were the main mode of transport.
I was the youngest of eight, and I could ride a man's bike (wedging my right leg under the bar to push the pedal), but there was only one about the house and it was booked on weekdays by my brothers. My sister's bike, similarly.
So, walking it had to be, with an ever-increasing number of 'scholars' as Daddy used to call us, the little coterie being added to at every crossroads we came to. Because I was so small, I usually lagged behind the others and, now and again, a brother or a sister would double back for me. It wasn't that they were concerned for my safety, it was the Hell they would pay if anything happened to me and they had to explain things at home.
Once, Mitchell's roan bull broke out of a field, cutting me off from them. I didn't know that at the time, but back they came somehow or other. Being the straggler had its moments: once, at Foliard's Crossroads, about a mile from home, I arrived just as a car was going past. It not alone stopped, but reversed and here was me in Castlederg before the others, 'licking the window', as the French would say, of McCarron's sweet shop till bell time.
Another time, a breadvan coming towards me couldn't get past a big bush that was blocking the road. Again, I was on my own. The driver asked if I would remove the thornbush, I did and he gave me a cream-bun. I can still taste the freshness. Mammy was a terrible cook, and had the eight of us to feed, so we didn't have that luxury at home.
It was a mainly lonesome furrow I ploughed, but, as the old Chinese proverb goes: 'Man with downcast eyes finds gold', surprises did jump up and catch you unawares. Once, on a frost morning, I found a 10 shilling (50p) note stuck to the road. I pocketed it and, when gave it to Daddy, he said: 'Good man. That will buy me a spade'.
We kept cows for milking and, around about the time we headed off for school, Daddy would be ready with the creamery cans (one in Winter and two in Summer after the cows had calved). They had to be wheeled in a wheelbarrow to a collection 'stand' at the bottom of the Old Road. Since the barrow had to be brought back up, he did that job himself, although he used to let me wheel as it was all downhill.
Many's a time I wished I was going back up the road with him, especially on sunny Spring mornings when the men from Carn, our townland, assembled for the thresher, or there was the bog to go to. But, past hemlock and foxglove I went, the one that killed and the one that cured, and tinkling streams that were home to sticklebacks I used to see the 'bad boys' fish with homemade rods, past green and greener pastures, through storied Carndreen and Cavan, and Muckle Hill where the rebels of 1798, we're told, held up.
On hot, sticky days, I would stop at Bairds' half-door home and ask for a cup of water. So, you're Mick Breslin's cub? Aye. Next door, though, was Coyle's and Coyle's dog. He had a bad name, the inverse, I suppose, of the saying: if you have the name of an early riser, you can lie till dinner time. Its owner accused of 'tempting' him and, just recently, I was reminded that I used to charge the other children to negotiate their safe passage, although he definitely bit a hole in my wellington , just above the instep, rendering it useless.
Both these houses were in Cavan townland and, on the boundary of Cavan and Kilcroagh, was Kilclean School which catered for Protestant children. We were all from the Catholic community. Strangely, our paths never crossed.Where I got the energy from, I will never know. Walking three miles, after a long day is sapping work. The scenic beauty I do admire now, then only represented tortuous hills and steep valleys separating me from home. By the time I came within sight of our thatch, breasting the second last hill, my stomach was crying out for a Barmecide feast.
But, I struggled on and, even in my last year (1957-'58), I was still walking.
Imagine my sense of poignancy, then, when I saw a fixture in the diary for the 'Herald' photographer to go to St Patrick's PS, Derrygonnelly to cover a 'Walk to School Week Walking Bus' around the village.
OK, the Week seeks to promote a healthy message, but I'd like to think today's 'scholars' might be able, through the Week, to recall a time when there was neither bus or car or bicycle as we got educated.
