As far as I know only one, very poor, long-distance photograph exists of the old school in Killashee, from the time it was still hosting lessons. This house belonged to Miss Leahy and her niece Miss Davis. It is a sign of the times that I never knew her Christian name, for she was my first school teacher. The school itself – which has been long knocked down – was of a typical 19th-century style, built in 1884. The master’s two-storey house in the middle with two single-storey wings each side.

The infant classes and the girls on the right and the boys on the left. The plumbing arrangements were basic to say the least. Once, I bumped my forehead on the gate and Miss Leahy gave me a penny halfpenny. She was a kind and considerate lady in a time when not all in her profession were as nice.

Mr and Mrs Farrell

Mrs Farrell taught the girls’ class and she lived in this house a mile from the school with her husband Frank.

She permanently wore black clothes, more a practice of widows at the time. Why, nobody really knew – her husband Frank was very much alive. Frank was a precise man who mainly occupied his day driving her to and from the school by pony and trap. Their respective skills as a farmer and teacher were closely aligned.

The third teacher, Master Michael McNamara, had an air of patrician about him. He sat crossed legged at the top of the classroom, cigarette in hand regularly tipping the ash into the turn-ups of his trousers. He was the only one of the teachers that made the transition to the new school when it opened in 1958. And I am one of a dwindling number of pupils that transcended both schools.

Mike and Mary Lee

Tucked into the corner of the old school site was a tiny whitewashed thatched cottage. Mary and Mike Lee lived here. What she lacked in stature she made up in ferocity. One day, we were bringing some calves up the road past her half-door, which was unusually open and unguarded. The inevitable happened and I was “volunteered” by the accompanying adults, who were also afraid of her, to venture into the kitchen after the calf.

Picture the scene – a dimly lit kitchen, Mike minding his own business, sitting on a three-legged stool by the open-hearth fire, smoking his crocked-shanked pipe and Mary, besom in hand, chasing the calf around trying to evict the intruder. On about the third lap of the kitchen, Mike got upended by the terrified calf and the kettle got knocked into the fire.

Smoke and steam everywhere and poor old Mike trying to make sense of it all as he picked himself up out of the ashes and poor young Mike, (me) getting verbal and physical abuse. Both the calf and I got a few swipes of the brush on the second lap (I think poor old Mike got one for good measure too). We finally made it to freedom. On my way to the new school, I avoided going past her house for at least a week after this episode. Beautiful memories. On reflection, I’m sure Mary wasn’t nearly as bad as we as kids made her out to be, but it was fun to have her in our lives.

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