One of my fondest memories is of me cycling to the village of Patrickswell on a Saturday morning with Mr Roche ( we always called our elders by their title), to pick mushrooms. That was so exciting for a kid of seven, a kid from the island. We left at dawn and cycled through the city to a village on the far side. No mean feat for a kid and an old man. I was so proud to present my Da with my big bag of mushrooms. Even prouder when he cooked them in milk and pepper and butter for his breakfast. His favourite breakfast.