16 th March 2026

                               16 th March 2026

                   A June Morning in The Cottage                                            Soda  Bread                 

An early summer light throws long , rectangular patterns                   into the small kitchen.

6 am - Angelus bells ring out from the cathedral .

Softly , she  mutters the prayer, to herself, as she places                        two sods of turf onto the glowing briquettes in the range.

My grandmother remembers, with a smile how grandad                     and John Jo, cut the turf , brought it home from the bog                          in the spring, turf, that will last the family through                           bitter winter months.                      

 She sighs, sits the mixing bowl on the wooden farmhouse               table, adds flour, salt, buttermilk, soda,                                                   no weighing , no hesitating - rhythmic -  instinctive.                                

Just as my grandmother  draws those she loves                                        close to  her heart, with tender touch she forms the                             soft, supple  dough.                                                                                     She throws it down onto the floury  table,                                          Gently, she kneads, -  hands, worn, knuckles, gnarled.                               I imagine her life - many hours, many days , many years,                         fair weather or fowl - work,  from dawn to dusk                                      on the family farm.                                                                                Today, the cosy cottage is more manageable.                                                My grandmother takes a knife, and,  cuts ceremoniously,                      into the round dough.                                                                                      If you're  near you'll hear her whisper,  "the  cross of blessing."                                                                                                                                          Later, as the sun goes down, the soda bread will be cool,                      she will slice it, spread it with butter, lots of butter,                              pile it high on plates,   family and friends will gather -                        all,  united together in this timeless tradition -  Soda bread,                   pots  of strong tea, shared stories- stories stored                                        in the very walls of the cottage,  talk of what has been, what is,                what will be There will be laughter,there will be crying,                    there will be remembering.

My grandmother will smile, with a tear in her eye.

               All hearts will be full.