The sky hung low and melancholia pervaded Excise Street, Fry Place and the Shambles that August afternoon. On the Docks a townie was kicking a tin can and haranguing the passing bollards one by one. "So this is it! This is what's left! Athlone sanitised! Banished, the garrison! Banished, the Gael! Banished the fishwives and greasy faced bargees! The church of Rome is in rigor mortis!"

On the bridge he gazed at the swirls and eddies below and gave way to the daytime boozers who were snivelling their way home. In Church Street he doffed a cáibín to merchant ancestors and passed the Bawn, where tinkers once sold asses. In Mardyke Street he heard the lowing of calf markets long forgotten and thought of the soldiers who once raised míle murdar down in Irishtown. In Sean Costello Street he stopped awhile and then chanced upon an alehouse - a quiet place full of bric-a-brac, stuffed stoats and shadows.

In the gloaming of Kieran Flannery's pub a broad-brimmed silhouette turned to say "Hello". "What's the name?" the townie asked. "Hemstead, Frank Hemstead," came the reply. "Where are you from, Frank?" the townie continued. "Clonbonny," said Frank, "Hemstead from Clonbonny!" the townie exclaimed, "but... how did... a man with a name like Hemstead find his way to Clonbonny?" "Well now," said Frank, "it's a long story."

And so it was. When eyeballs adjusted and tongues loosened, skeletons marched; and a tale was hatched. A tale of fact and fancy and the relics of "auld dacency". There followed many visits to a thatched home in Clonbonny, where Frank recounted by the turf range. Under the dresser two springer spaniels listened - luxuriating in the hiss of the hob and the bonhomie of it all. When the visitor averred his ignorance of lazy beds and grouse holes and coccidiosis; Pal and Bamby raised their reproachful and disbelieving eyes.

This is how it happened; a booklet born of an August afternoon cafard. I thank Frank for taking me in among the wild geese and down the pathways of yesteryear. In turn, I extend sincere thanks to Tony Martin and Paul Breen. Tony did the printing and Paul, my gaeilgeoir friend from Slí an Aifrinn, read the final draft and caught many a botún.