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panels on either side. The whole was surmounted by a mantelpiece which was a simple shallow shelf about eye-level height. All around its front edge ran a decorative brass strip, held in place by nails at three inch intervals. I remember it so clearly because a regular daily chore consisted of applying Brasso to eliminate finger prints, and then polishing the whole thing with a soft cloth which soon turned black from the process. It was worth the effort, for the brass gleamed satisfactorily when the lamplight or a stray sunbeam caught it. On top of the mantelpiece at either end stood two white delph dogs, of a kind to be found in every neighbouring household, turning their unwavering gaze towards the middle of the room. When I refer to the fire I don’t mean an open fire, for we didn’t have one. Other cottages did though, and how I envied those that did. Not only did they cast their heat into the whole room but they cheered it with their flickering, dancing flames. Not only that but they gave enough light that the weekly Down Recorder could be perused by the light from the hearth. And in these fortunate houses another pleasure was the comforting sputter from the big logs which could be laid right across the hearth and sizzle away for most of a night. Turf would have made a great fire but it didn’t exist in our part of Down. In fact, the first time I ever saw turf was in the Donegal Gaeltacht when I was sixteen. Instead of an open fire, which would have made not only a kettle but my heart sing, we had a cast-iron range rejoicing in the name of “The Modern Mistress”. This was a squat construction requiring liberal doses of blacklead to make it look half-presentable. It coyly concealed the actual fire from your casual gaze, so that you had to peer through a grille about a foot square to detect the glowing innards. Logs didn’t fit into this narrownecked and narrow-minded beast. It refused anything approaching a log with a kind of dumb insolence, exhibiting that cussedness of all inanimate things. It really would accept only coal or slack, and then only through a moveable lid about the size of a dinner plate. The kitchen furnishings were simple in the extreme. The floor was made up of large flags of stone, though almost the entire area was covered with linoleum. My job from quite an early age was to attend to the daily household chores, whenever my mother was out working. She was out often so I became quite expert as a deputy. When I would arrive from school, there was the Modern Mistress to be cajoled for she was the key to the next task. When some hot water was available from m’lady’s condescension, there were the morning’s dishes to wash, beds to make, furniture to dust and the floor to be polished. I took pleasure in this last operation, for when the polish had been well rubbed in and a good shine applied, the gleam and the fragrant smell contributed to a sense of well-being. The pantry opened from the kitchen’s north-west corner (remember my compass reference?) and was about 10 feet by 4. Certainly two people couldn’t pass in what was really a cul-de-sac ending in an outside wall lighted by a small window. Under the window stood a low table, and here reposed our two buckets of water. At a glance it was clear when it was time again to fetch more water. The pantry’s furnishings were completed by two wooden shelves along the wall which was the back wall of the cottage. Here were the pots, pans, plates, cups and other utensils needed for cooking and eating. You couldn’t wash the dishes here, for there wasn’t enough room. You couldn’t wash or 56