I have often rambled among the old derelict cottages of the Ox Mountains, many of them abandoned for decades. Amazingly, it is no surprise to see old roses still blooming among their ruins each summer.

It is the ambition of every rural village to have a famous son; a well-known footballer or a noted singer. The Ox Mountain village of Cloonacool, in south Sligo, has such a boast.

A friend of mine gave me a few cabbage plants in recent weeks. I planted them, and despite the recent drought, they survived and are doing well.

Beech, common (Fagus sylvatica). Monumental, majestic, home to rare wildlife.   Beech is an enchanting species and known as the queen of trees.

When passing through the sleepy village of Aclare in south Sligo, it is difficult to believe it was once a thriving business hub of retail outlets and pubs.

In a former life, I worked for Irish Guide Dogs for the Blind (IGDB). It is a terrific organisation, based in Cork, providing dogs to guide the blind and visually impaired.

There will be bluebells growing under the big trees  And you will be there and I will be there in May. These are the opening line of Patrick Kavanagh’s poem, Bluebells for Love.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me  No bird, but an invisible thing,  A voice, a mystery.

Few things in life have given me more pleasure than building a length of dry-stone wall. I’m not an expert but anything I have built hasn’t fallen down – at least, not yet anyway.

There was a time when very few people had the telephone in their home. The priest, the doctor and maybe the local shop were the usual clients. At that time, in the Ox Mountain region, if you wanted to make a call, you went to the local Post Office.

Here on this ribbon of bog road  where curlews cry and teal and mallard burst from darkening bog-holes  I stand cathedralled.

In certain rural parishes, a new phenomenon has appeared: the community café. Usually arising in the aftermath of local shop and pub closures, these hubs present communities with a place to meet, socialise and, of course, enjoy a warm cuppa.

Whom I ask for no gift, whom I thank for all things, this is the morning. Night is gone, a dawn comes up in birds and sounds of the city.

In much the same way as the Ford Model T was a universal car in its time, so too was the Morris Minor. This simple car was a great favourite back in the 1950s and 1960s, endearing itself to townsfolk and country people alike.

If my father had a quiet Sunday in winter, he would take his gun and walk the land. This usually meant walking the boundary of our farm, taking in the places most likely to provide him with a shot.

Anthony Joseph Gavaghan, known in the US as Anthony J. Gavigan, was born in the Ox Mountain townland of Claddagh, near Aclare, in January 1861.

If you drive through the Ox Mountain region during the months of winter, you will not see many cattle in the fields. This is because all farms, regardless of their size, now have modern sheds and slatted houses where cattle are housed.

I always find it strange that rural Ireland has such a strong tradition of amateur drama. I could mention several groups in places such as Castleconor, Cloonacool and Dromard, all with a strong tradition of producing great plays.

I have been taking photographs all my adult life. I think of photography as a mixture of maths and art – a bit like creating a painting with a mechanically configured device.

I made my First Communion in 1968. There wasn’t as much fuss at that time about special outfits, bouncy castles and caterers being engaged to provide lunch.

This is piece number 100 in this series and I am dedicating it to the men of the Ox Mountain region who lost their lives in World War I. It is inspired by the research of Simone Hickey and her recently published book, Bringing Them Home.

While the cup of tea seems at first glance to be uniquely Irish, it is in fact, very un-Irish.

There are few things more part of our identity than the cup of tea. In days of yore in the Ox Mountains, if a house had tea and sugar, there seemed little else could go wrong.

As the importance of letters and letter-writing fades from view, in the face of electronic communications, it can be difficult to imagine the anticipation that receiving a letter once held.

When I think of St Stephen’s Day, I think of the Wrenboys. I think of that dark, often wet day just after Christmas when all the glamour of the festive season has just passed and you know that, for another year, that’s as good as it’s going to get.

Glowing orange marmalade, with its distinctive tangy flavour, occupies a special place in our affections. Marmalade has long been an essential on breakfast tables throughout our region.

Our Ox Mountain hills are small compared to the Swiss Alps but believe it or not, there is a connection.

When I was young, we always referred to the stoat as a weasel. Of course, there are no weasels in the Ox Mountain region, nor are there any in the whole of Ireland.

When the devil was sick, the devil a saint would be. But when the devil got well, the devil a saint was he. I came across the above saying while researching this article. It dates from the late 19th century.

The nicest brown bread I ever had was made by the grandmother. It was a light, moist bread and seemed to have a wholesome, more colourful tinge to it. My mother’s brown bread was… funnily enough, just brown.

A hopper of ditches, a cutter of corn, and a brown little cow without any horns.

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,  The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.

Most villages and small towns around the Ox Mountain region had an operational mill at one time or another.

An item of old that is to be found discarded in the overgrown hedges and ditches of the Ox Mountains is the blacksmith’s gate. These are not gates once owned by blacksmiths, but gates once made by blacksmiths.

There is a certain something about a pot of homemade jam; the craft of preserving summer fruits, the colour, the aroma, the joy in its making and the pleasure in its eating.

I have a fancy for poultry, hens in particular. They are easily kept, quickly trained and repay good husbandry with a supply of eggs.

The bramble berries were our food,  The water was our wine,  And the linnet in the self-same bush,  Came after us to dine.

When Carrowmore National School closed its doors in 1973, it was reputed to be the oldest school in continuous operation in Ireland. I was attending the school at the time and its closure was like leaving behind a piece of history.

I remember the makeshift roadside camps of the Travelling People seasonally situated at crossroads and bridges at various points along the Moy or in the Ox Mountains.

The rosary was a nightly ritual in our house as I grew up. My father was ever-faithful to it, my mother somewhat less so.  Saying the rosary in the company of my father was sometimes an unpredictable affair.

I love to bake. I find it a very creative process; one that gives fast results and a wholesome outcome. I am not one to stick religiously to recipes but I know enough of the basics to generally make the process work.

When people left the Ox Mountain region in the late 1800s, they left for reasons of poverty and lack of opportunity. Some left out of fear; fear of failing, fear of the authorities and in some cases, fear of death itself.

Despite many perils, the fox survives in the Ox Mountains. It seems at times that the tougher it gets for the fox, the better he is able to cope with the changes and hardships that are hurled at him.