Story BoxStory BoxTraveller Tales from Earlier Times

A collection of reminiscencesfrom Traveller women

The content of the publication is the sole responsibility of the publisher and the European Commission is not liable for any use that may be made of the information

This booklet has been developed by the Institutefor Conflict Research to increase awareness,understanding and appreciation of Travellers’traditions and cultures and to work towards thereduction of the prejudices they face.

The Developing Capacity for Dialogue forMinority Ethnic Communities is a project of thePeace III Programme managed by the SpecialEU Programmes Body and delivered by theLisburn -Castlereagh Peace III Partnership.

Story BoxStory BoxTraveller Tales from Earlier Times

IntroductionUndoubtedly, one of the most rewarding experiences of my life wasspent as a voluntary literacy tutor on the Traveller site on the Glen Road,Belfast with women who were mainly, though not exclusively,grandmothers. Their principal motivation was to help educate theirgrandchildren and provide them with the support they’d never hadthemselves - a common, human ambition.

My abiding memory is of super-ser heaters, singed skirts, steamed-upcaravan windows, the wind always whipping around us, cups of tea, galesof laughter, shared intimacies, invitations to weddings, a mutual senseof pride in the small but important achievements against life’s harshnessand prejudices faced, resilience tempered with resignation and countlessacts of simple kindnesses. In spite of everything happening in andaround that site, bereft of the most basic facilities, I was made to feel mostwelcome, respected and involved in life on and off the camp, for the briefperiod our lives entwined.

I still have the letter that was written to me by Ellie Mongan when myfather died, expressing sorrow, on behalf of the class. I remain touchedby it, knowing how long it must have taken to write and how muchconcentration would have been involved.

In this booklet, Traveller women speak for themselves – voices we seldomhear but need to. Warmest congratulations to everyone involved.

Roisin McDonoughChief ExecutiveArts Council of Northern Ireland

Story Box

Story Box

ContentsEven To this Day, I Often Picture it Out… . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6On the Road . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7Reading the Grass . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8Rocks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9Born Survivors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10The Rivers and the Rain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11Water from the Graveyard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12Foraging . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13Sea Grass and Periwinkles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14Hunting Hedgehogs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14Bald Patches in the Potato Field . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15A Goose Fat Vest . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15Warts ‘n’ All . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16The First Recyclers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17In Fear of the Fridge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18Family People . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19If it Doesn’t Have a Bell, it ain’t a Chantelle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20Churns of Silver . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21Hawking . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23Sing for Your Supper . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24In at the Deep End . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24The Holly and the Cake Tin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25Hard Times . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27A Necklace of Shillings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27True Love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28Telegrams . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29Auld Daddy’s Penny Glasses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30Wild, Wild Horses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31Burning the Banisters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32Coughing Donkeys. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33Blow Your Thrush Down. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33In Mourning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34Dancing at the Crossroads . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34Keep Carrying the Story Box. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36Acknowledgements. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38

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Even to this day, I Often Picture it Out…Travellers have always been storytellers. Wherever we go,we take stories with us. Stories that stretch backgenerations. Stories about what we ate and drank, whatclothes we wore, and what games we played as children.Stories about how our parents, grandparents and great-grandparents lived. Stories about who they were which canhelp us to understand who we are. For all these reasonsand more, such stories are pricelessly valuable.

The stories you’ll nd in this little book came aboutthrough a number of sessions with a group of Travellerwomen, lively conversations during which we unpacked ahoard of precious memories. The following pages will giveyou a glimpse into what life was like for travelling people inthe past. Some things you might know already. Others willbe a surprise.

For Travellers, this book is a chance to learn somethingabout where they’ve come from. For non-Travellers, it’s achance to get acquainted with another way of life.

Delve into the story box.

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On the RoadA week here, a week there. You were all the time going.Whether it was in a colourful horse-drawn cart or the latestgleaming white caravan, Travellers were always on themove. It didn’t make a bit of difference where we pulled in.It didn’t matter to us what religion, what colour, whateverpeople were, it made no difference to us. We pulled allthrough the North of Ireland. We travelled every bit of it.Every town, city and village. You’d meet all differentcharacters of people, moving from place to place. Thatmade you a good judge of character. There’s good and badin everybody, that’s the way I look at life. I’d know by thevoice of nearly every person which town they were from,because we travelled all them towns. Some settled peoplewould be very jealous: “It’s alright for you, you get to seedifferent places, and I’m stuck here in this house!”

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Reading the GrassIf you were following the trail and you didn’t keep up withit, you’d be lost. You didn’t have mobile phones and youcouldn’t read the road signs, so you had to communicateby sods of grass. If you were going to turn left, you’d putdown a sod of grass at the crossroads to show the peoplebehind you. If you were going to do two lefts, you’d put asmall one and a big one. That way you’d never get lost.There was a trail of notes. You’d know by the grass how tond your way.

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RocksEverywhere my daddy went in Ireland, he was obsessedwith carving his name in rocks. His name’s carvedeverywhere. You can nd it all over. That must be how hegot his nickname: “Rocks”.

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Born SurvivorsTravelling wasn’t an easy life. But you learnt how to survive.You’d look at the horse drawn caravan, and think therewere sometimes twelve of us living in there. How did we tin there? How did we manage to get fed and everything?You look at a four or ve bedroom house now, and it’s nogood to you. It’s too small. You can’t manage in it. And wemanaged that time in a caravan. When you were travellingin the winter, your blood was thicker. And Travellers couldlive off the land, because they were taught it from a youngage. Survival, that’s all it was.

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The Rivers and The RainYou’d wash your clothes in rivers, and leave them on thetrees and bushes to dry. If the water was still, you wouldn’tuse it, because that meant it was full of bacteria. But if itwas running water, you’d wash the dishes in it too. If it wasreally clean, you’d jump right in and wash yourself, yourchildren, the lot. We’d use rainwater for a lot of things too.When it rained, mummy would put all the dishes andbuckets and baths round the caravan to catch the run-off.That’d do for washing the caravans, washing the children,washing your clothes. She’d light a re outside and put twobig barrels on. One was for boiling white clothes. The otherwould be for the dark clothes. She’d do all the washingwith these two big barrels. We’d have an old-fashionedmangle as well, a wringer, for putting clothes through toget the water out. You’d wash your hair with the rainwatertoo. It’d make it shine.

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Water from the GraveyardWhen you were travelling through a town or a village,you’d go round with cans and buckets to collect the waterfor cooking or washing. Some people could be veryfriendly, come down and meet you, and play with thechildren. Other times, you might come to a bad spot wherethey wouldn’t give you water. They thought that if theygave you water once, you’d stay there for weeks. It made nodifference though, because we’d go to the graveyardsinstead. You see, there’s always freshwater taps ingraveyards. We’d ll up our cans and buckets. We wouldn’tbe refused there.

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ForagingMainly you were rough and ready and you had to eatwhatever you could nd. If I did a survival course, I bet youI’d survive. We knew which plants and mushrooms youcouldn’t eat. I remember putting nettles on to boil whenwe didn’t have any cabbage. Spring nettles. Big pots ofthem. We’d go looking for mint leaves too. You’d cut up themint like powder and put sugar in it. That was our sweets.We knew what leaves were doing what. And whereverthere was sheep, you’d know that’s where the mushroomswould come out. There weren’t many fat people aroundthat time.

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Sea Grass and PeriwinklesYears ago my father and my family would pull up by abeach to get the sea grass and periwinkles. The little onesused to sell them at the beach. Sea grass, dulse, that waslovely.

Hunting HedgehogsThe men would set snares in the woods. My daddy was agreat hunter. He’d bring back rabbits or hares or whatever hecould get. Rabbits were lovely. We’d make stew out of them.Or else you’d catch trout in the rivers with your hands. Backin the day, they’d eat hedgehogs as well. You’d nd lots ofthem on railway banks. They’d go hunting for them andcome back with baskets full. Throw them into the re so allthe spines got burned off. Then mix clay from the ground,cover the hedgehog all over, put it under the re, and let itcook slowly. I wouldn’t eat it for the world. But I did see themdoing it through the years. They say it tasted like lamb.

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Bald Patches inthe Potato FieldIf we were in the country, andthere were potatoes orcabbages in the eld, you’d haveto take some if you were hungry.But you wouldn’t take them fromthe outside of the eld. You’d walkinto the middle part. The farmer’s going to check themcabbages every morning, nearest the place you’re camped,but he wouldn’t check the middle. You wouldn’t take much,just what you needed to survive.

A Goose Fat VestIf someone was poorly, you’d besent over to help them.Everyone would help eachother. If anyone had a badchest, you’d shape brown paperinto a vest and rub goosegrease all over it. Leave it therefor two days. That drew thephlegm. Goose fat is verygood stuff, used foreverything from cooking toailments.

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Warts ‘n’ AllMy old aunt had a perfect cure for warts. She’d get a bigpotato, cut it down the middle, rub the halves round thewarts, put the halves back together, put them in a clothand bury it for ve or six days. She’d dig it up, and when thepotato had gone rotten, the warts had gone. You can do itanother way. Cut the potato in four pieces. Bless the wartsthree times with each piece. Then put them on the spikedbranch of a tree. As soon as the potato pieces fall off thetree, the warts will have gone.

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The First RecyclersAll Travellers are recyclers. Going back hundreds of years.They’d go to farms for goose feathers and learn how tomake pillows and eiderdowns out of them. They used ourbags made of snow-white linen. The women would sewthem together and stuff them with feathers. Then they’ddecorate them with rags and colourful cloths and sellthem. They’d buy horsehair from farmers and sell it forhairbrushes. They were carpenters too. They’d learn how tomake pegs, spoons and bowls from wood. That’s the kindof people they were. It was work and never waste. Theydidn’t have the money to waste. They were great artists.The old ones used to make buckets and pots using sheetsof tin. You could earn a living out of all that.

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In Fear of the FridgeThere were no electric lights. We didn’t miss it because wedidn’t know anything about it. You’d use a car battery torun the television. You’d have little gaslights run from a gascanister. When you were moving around, they’d oftenenough get broken. If the caravan came with a fridge, theTraveller wouldn’t use the fridge. They’d put all thecleaning stuff – the polish and bleach – in it instead. Even inroasting hot summer weather, they’d have a small steelcan, ll it with water and put the milk and butter in it tokeep it cool. Every morning they’d have to go and get freshfood. The simple reason was that they were afraid offridges, because they were run with gas, and could’veblown up. They’d warn the younger ones against using thefridge. That’s years and years ago.

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Family PeopleFamily means a lot to Travellers. There’s eighteen of us.Thirteen boys and ve girls. Every night, before we haddinner, daddy would say “Where’s such-and-such-a-one?”And before we went to bed, he’d count us all. We stucktogether. We were always taught to be polite. You weren’tallowed to run wild or do any harm. We were always cleanand well fed. Because there were so many of us, mummywould always be going to jumble sales and second handmarkets. She was very good at altering clothes. She wasalways sewing. There’d be a long line of shirts and a longline of trousers. We always kept three caravans. One for theboys, one for the father and mother, and one for the girls.That’s the way we were brought up.

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If it Doesn’t Have a Bell, it ain’t a ChantelleMy mother used to buy dresses for us at Appleby Fair,dresses with bells on and painted shoes and stockings. Red on me and pink on my sister Cathleen and blue on mysister Elizabeth. She liked the red on me because I wasdark. Elizabeth had blonde hair. My mummy and daddyalways had the best for us. The dresses were calledChantelles. We still get them. That’s a tradition that’ssurvived.

I Could’ve Been a JudgeThe younger ones got educated, the older ones didn’t.That’s the way it was. I missed out on all education myself.I’d love if I’d’ve been properly educated. God knows whereI’d be. Could’ve been a judge or something. All my life Iwanted to be something, but I never could do it. If only I’dhave had a proper education. You’ll never see me writingletters, because I can’t. I can read, but I don’t spell it. Or ll informs. That’s the reason.

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Churns of SilverMy daddy always made the familywork. He said otherwise you’d getlazy. All children helped that time.I’d be out helping mummy with herchores at whatever age. A lot ofresponsibility lands on the eldestchild in the family. The older oneshad to keep the youngers’ faceswashed and make sure their clotheswere clean. We had milk churns forwater. We’d have to polish thosechurns till they looked like silver. Ifthe outside of your caravan or yourchurns were dirty, people wouldn’teven have tea off you.

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HawkingTravellers have always been resourceful. If you couldn’tmake any money in one place, you’d have to move on,otherwise you’d starve with hunger. It’s a survival thing. Ifyou don’t get the price of the shopping, there’s no point inbeing there, you’d have to make a move, a fresh start again.It wasn’t easy. When we were stopping in Belfast, we’d allmeet in Smitheld Market. There was a place you’d buystuff to sell. The ‘Swag Shop‘, we called it. We’d buy tenshillings worth of work. Then we’d go out hawking. Somewould go one way, some the other. Different directions.We’d be selling pegs and owers. Saturday was our bestday. That’s the day the people have money. It was called a‘Double day’, because you had to get double the money.We’d never hawk on a Sunday. That was a sacred day to aTraveller. We hawked everywhere. On the Antrim Road, farup where the bigger houses are. If you found a good housefor hawking, you’d keep it to yourself!

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Sing for Your SupperMy mummy used to sing through the houses. The peoplewould say, “I’ll give you this lump of meat here if you’ll singme a song”. Or it would be a cabbage, some butter or a jugof milk. Mammy was a beautiful singer. She’d sing her way,and so she wouldn’t have to carry so much to hawk.

In at the Deep EndOur children were trained from a very young age to bestreetwise. They’d know to mind themselves. Not to go offon their own. If one of us went to the toilet, ten of us wouldhave to go together. One place I used to hawk in Belfastwas the house of a rich American woman. She had aswimming pool. It was the rst time I ever saw a swimmingpool in a house. One time, I jumped in in the middle of thewinter, all my clothes on, the whole lot. I didn’t feel the coldthough. I didn’t have time.

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The Holly and the Cake TinAt Christmas, we’d often go to the wealthiest parts of town andsell holly. Once, me and my cousin Miley got carried away withthis big mansion of a house. I’d have been about seven then.Miley would’ve been about nine or ten. This lovely lady comesto the door. “Oh, you must freezing with the cold,” she said.“Yes, we are,” I said. She invited us in, make me a long storyshort. We could’ve been murdered! We did what we were toldnot to do. I remember it, every bit of it. A big room with a logre. A collection of dolls in a glass case. They must have been allantiques. In the sitting room, she gave us hot chestnuts – therst time I ever tasted any. Then she was rooting all around thehouse. She came back with a pair of gloves apiece and a hatand a scarf. And a big Christmas cake in a colourful biscuit tin.We were a long time in this house.

The whole family was up and down the streets looking for us.They must’ve thought we were murdered. They wasted thewhole evening with the lorry full of holly. And we come outcarrying this cake. My cousin said “I tell you, if you don’t give memy half of that cake…” But it wasn’t the cake at all I wanted. Itwas the box I was interested in, all decorated. We did get agood few clouts that time. They were thatshocked. But then they broke thecake in half and we all had abig lunch. I ended up with thetin. I don’t know what everbecame of it. I’ll never forgetthe house. I often think about it,even now, back through theyears. To this day, I picture it out.

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Hard TimesI would never beg anybody for anything. If I had children tofeed and not a shilling in my pocket, I’d go through thehouses hawking whatever I had – bits of earrings, jewellery,anything. When I had made enough money, I’d go into ahardware shop and buy a big crate of pegs, split them upinto twelves, and put them real fancy on a nice bit of card,so I could ask more money than in the shop. That’d befood. If you had bread and milk and potatoes, you couldmake a dinner of that. If you had no coal in the stove, youcould gather some sticks for it. You wouldn’t go hungry. Atravelling person would often give food to settled peoplein the poorest houses.

A Necklace of ShillingsBack in the old days, women wouldn’t carry any money in apurse. They would string their sovereigns on a chain andwear them around their neck or as a bracelet. And theirchildren would have tiny dollars in their ears.

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True LoveOnce, when my granny was a little girl, she and her sisterwere out selling through the houses and they met thesetwo brothers who were farmers, “Country people” – that’swhat we call people who live in houses. The brothers werevery wealthy and well to do in their area. So, the two sistersand the two brothers got to talking. And everyday afterthat they used to meet by a nearby bridge. Sure enough,they ended up eloping. The four of them. Two brothers andtwo sisters. And that was the biggest scandal in the worldback then, for a girl to go with a country boy. Couldn’t be aworser scandal. But for two to go together! They ended uprunning away, anyway, and they got married. The boys tookon a whole new way of life. They took to the road. Theynever lived in a house again.

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TelegramsBefore there were mobile phones, if something reallyimportant happened with Travellers, they’d have to send atelegram to a town. If there were Travellers in the area,they’d know to pass on the message. If you wanted to keepin contact with family that had moved away to England orScotland, you’d always have a post-ofce for a base, onetown in particular for a connection. It was very rare aTraveller could read at that time. If you got a letter or atelegram, the postmaster’d read it for you, and then he’danswer it as well. The post ofce was a great thing forTravellers. You’d always pick a smaller town, so the postofce could get to know you. You could be gone formonths and they’d keep letters for you. There wouldn’t beany secrets though. If it was a small village, they’d begossiping like mad. They’d know your whole life story.

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Auld Daddy’s Penny GlassesMy auld daddy, he wore glasses, and no Traveller woreglasses. Sure, half of them’d be stone-blind. They’ve thesame blood as everybody else, but you’d never see aTraveller with glasses, because they’d say only countrypeople only wear glasses. But auld daddy was different, hehad these penny glasses. He used to love reading. And we’dlove listening to him, the stories. Wouldn’t be televisions thattime. He’d read all little books that my granny’d get outhawking. He’d be reading the stories, and all the children’dbe listening. And they’d be jealous, because none of theirpeople could read. And we’d be around with the kids in thecamp, ghting, and they’d say, “Your auld daddy’s a speccyfour eyes”. But they’d have to get back in with me, and be myfriend, because they used to like listening to him so much.He was a lovely man, a proper gentleman, was auld daddy.

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Wild, Wild HorsesSometimes, when we were travelling far out in thecountryside, going along little country lanes and stoppingin open elds or by woods, we’d see great big wild stallions.And us children, we’d jump on ‘em. No reins, nothing tosteer the horse or anything. Galloping through the elds.

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Burning the BanistersSometimes, in the middle of winter when it was real frostyand cold, we would park up the caravans and rent out aroom in a boarding house. I remember one great big oldtall house. There was the staircase going miles up, fourrooms here, four rooms there. In each room there was oneor two Traveller families. Every room had a replace. Well, itwas a very poor winter that time, and, no word of a lie, westarted burning the banisters. We weren’t used to housesor stairs, you see. And so the big staircase was going, bit bybit. There were ninety-nine tonne of children. All thechildren played in the street that time. There was a line ofshops nearby – a fruit shop, a butchers. Us children’d haveto go a good bit to the shops. And when we went outdown the stairs to the shops or out to play, mummy’dshout after us – “Stick to the wall! Stick to the wall!”Because there were no banisters. “Stick to the wall!” That’sall I ever heard.

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Coughing DonkeysA cure for the whooping cough was a donkey foal. You putthe child under it three times and the cough was gone.

Blow your Thrush DownIf a child had the thrush, the mother’d have to blow threetimes for three mornings into the child’s mouth. After that it’dbe cured.

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In MourningFor a funeral of someone that you knew, the TV’d becovered with a bit of material. You wouldn’t be allowed towatch that television for twelve months. No entertainmentwhatsoever for twelve months, and black clothes for twelvemonths.

Dancing at the CrossroadsLots of Travellers played the spoons and mouth organs,probably more when they had the res outside, and therewould have been singing and dancing. Sometimes a groupof Travellers would go to a crossroads, and lay down a bigpiece of clapboard. Then people would come from all theback roads and meet up, playing whistles and spoons anddancing on the board. If the local community were friendlywith the Travellers, they’d join in and dance as well. Alldancing in the moonlight.

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Keep Carrying the Story BoxStories are part of what makes us who we are. There’s alldifferent groups of Travellers. One could be a doctor. Onecould be a painter. One could be a great singer. The othercould know all the towns from Tipperary to Timbuktu. It’slike a bag of dolly mixture. We’re not all the same people.There’s at least four or ve different groups. Differenttraditions as well. There’s English gypsies, Welsh gypsies,Scots gypsies, American Travellers. They all carry differentboxes of precious stories wherever they go. If you’re aTraveller, ask your parents and grandparents what it was likefor them. If you’re a country person, ask yours if they evermet a Traveller who stopped nearby. Listen to their tales.And when they’ve nished, don’t be surprised if this is whatthey say: That’s my story. Now tell me yours.

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AcknowledgementsThe Institute for Conflict Research would like to thank all

those women who contributed to this book by sharing

their time, their stories and their company in particular

those from The Connors Family, The Dundon Family, The

McCann Family, The Noland Family, The Purcell Family,

The Doherty Family and The Carmody Family.

Thanks also to Rita Simmonds, as well as to Pauline McCarry

from An Munia Tober for their commitment and support

to these families and this project.

Paul McDonnell and Marc Steenson at Three Creative

Company for design.

A special thanks to the Community Artists Grace E. Radford

for the images and Ben Maier for facilitating the workshops

and editing the Book.

A project supported by the PEACE III programme managed by the Special EU Programmes Body and delivered by the Lisburn-Castlereagh PEACE III Partnership

9 7 8 0 9 5 5 2 2 5 9 8 7

ISBN 9780955225987