It should be hung in the Folk Museum.

McMahon’s donkey and cart on the

Irvinestown Road, my mother leading the donkey,

her four children posed in the empty cart.

Beside her, the lady from Kent, who has

stopped to be snapped with some Irish peasants.

The donkey, no doubt, is a bonus.

But she sent the photograph and here we

are, in the Fifties, on a country road, going

where and why I have long forgotten. How colonial we

look. How self-conscious. Except the donkey.