WHAT a remarkable transformation has taken place in the South Armagh region, especially in Upper and Lower Creggan, over the past half-century.

For example, modern houses have replaced the traditional cottages; labour-saving devices and machinery have done away with drudgery in the home and on the farm, and the combustion engine has supplanted the bicycle and horse and cart.

Of course, the �Troubles� have taken a terrible toll, dividing communities and even families, while the all-pervasive military presence has cast a pall over this scenic area of culture and history. Ironically, British soldiers once toiled in the fields alongside farmers from Camlough to Crossmaglen, - some of them even marrying local girls.

Those were halcyon days when linen ruled supreme, being used in royal palaces and humble homesteads. Indeed, during the last war, fibre from local flax, processed at Bessbrook Mill, was a vital ingredient in the construction of aeroplanes. Since German U-boats were sinking British merchant ships, transporting supplies of food from foreign part, battalions of troops were diverted from fighting in Europe to help harvest the valuable crops, grown in South Armagh.

While on school-holidays at the farmhouse of my Aunt Mary Anne Hearty in Dorsey, near Silverbridge, I tried my hand at pulling the blue-berried plant. But my inexpert fingers crushed the precious plant, and I was unceremoniously banished from the scene by her husband. Later, I was allowed to join in trampling the bundles of foul-smelling stalks in the flax-dam.

Nowhere was the spirit of co-operation more apparent than at harvest-time, when men-folk from the area joined forces in an impressive demonstration of �help thy neighbour,� or meitheal, - as it is called in the West of Ireland.

When it came the turn of the combine-harvester coming to my aunt�s farm, many young men rallied around, and the field was invaded by a hive of volunteers. The women-folk also played an important role, preparing a mound of sandwiches, and milk-churns filled with hot, sweet tea, which were warmly welcomed at the scene of operations.

Finally, as the stream of weary, toil-worn harvesters filed into the farmhouse, they were ushered into the seldom-used sitting room, and seated around the huge, mahogany table. Heaps of floury potatoes were dumped on the plates, laced with layers of butter, bacon, sausages and black-pudding, etc., washed down with mugs of buttermilk. The craic would be mighty.

But I nearly met my Waterloo in one of those flax-dams. While staying with my aunt, near Dorsey Cross-roads, I decided to visit my Uncle Frank, who lived about a mile away, at the foot of Conlon�s Brae. An old rusting bike was lying in the front garden, and proved to be in working order. All went well, as I cycled past Dorsey School, - where my uncle�s grandson now operates an engineering business, - and on to the top of the brae.

As the bicycle began to gather speed, I started to apply the brakes, but discovered they did not work. Really hurtling downhill at this stage, I had to make a split-second decision. Should I crash into the ditch, and hope to escape with a few bruises; continue on in the hope that the bicycle would slow down on the level; or plunge into the flax-hole, in a field above my Uncle�s.

Inexplicably, I chose to veer into the laneway, leading down to his homestead. Speeding into the �street� in front of the house, I toppled sideways, and suffered only a few bruises to elbows and shins. But if a cart or other object had been left there, I would have been catapulted through the air, with terrible consequences.

Indeed, maybe I would have endured the same fate as one of may aunt�s pigs! During the last war, because of the food rationing, it was illegal for farmers to slaughter or consume their own livestock. Everything had to be handed over the Department of Agriculture and Food.

But South Armagh folk have never been noted for adherence to Government Regulations. So one day a porker was put to death, right in front of the farmhouse. I will never forget the heart-rending squeals, before the knife slit its throat. A basin was used to collect the gushing blood, which was later mixed with meal to make tasty black pudding, - luckily I did not realise it at the time.

There was panic, a few days later, when a Ministry of Agriculture Inspector was reported to be in the neighbourhood. The carcase, which had been hanging up in an outhouse for curing, was cut down and concealed in a hay-shed, until the crisis had passed.

Soon my holiday would be over, and I had to return to the frontier town, starting another term at the Christian Brothers primary school. But for my mother there were few opportunities to return to the scenes of her girlhood, and reunion with her ageing mother. The demands of a growing family and scarcity of transport, would make such an expedition rare.

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