ON a crisp Friday morning on November 21st, my father, PJ Watson, was laid to rest in Drum Cemetery. I remember asking my mother how my father proposed; she said he just took out the house plans and the rest was history.

My father often spoke about old times and he valued tradition. I remember him telling me about my uncle, Pat Heslin, giving him a wedding present of a cow and calf and, from there, his love of stock and the soil began. Horses were always part of his life and, as child and young man, they were the only form of transport in rural Ireland.