I was born in 1940 on a small farm two miles from the village of Castleconnell, Co Limerick. My father milked cows and sent the milk to the local co-op; he also did some ploughing and seeding for neighbours. As such he was the proud owner of a plough and a harrow.

The harrow was a rectangular farm implement 5ft by 4ft, made up of oak timber 4in by 4in, strapped together by iron bands. Steel pointed pins were driven right through the timber and protruded a full 9in as sharp pointed pins; the opposite ends were blunted by the hammering and protruded 4in.

It was, of course, pulled by horses. These harrows are obsolete and the lucky ones may be seen at vintage shows, whereas others are surrounded by nettles in long-abandoned Irish farmsteads.

In February 1943, I was two years and nine months old, and my mother was about to give birth. I knew absolutely nothing about the “stork” or “the head of cabbage” or, a local favourite, “being found when my father was spring fishing for salmon”.

I noticed a certain excitement around our house as my little world seemed to come undone. My aunt arrived all flustered. But she did not play, as was her wont, but instead rushed by me. The parish midwife, Nurse Kelly, came by bicycle with her bag fastened to the carrier. She too ignored me

So I was the forgotten boy, not yet three and completely at a loose end. Outside I went to the farmyard, where the hay barn was filled to the rafters, and I saw that my father had left the harrow standing upright against the hay. With nothing else to do and adult supervision otherwise engaged, I began climbing up on to the hay using the harrow as a ladder. I had seen my older brother using a proper ladder in search of hen eggs for my mother. Higher and higher I climbed. I peered in among the hay in the hopeful search for eggs.

In my efforts to climb, I unsteadied the harrow; as sure as Newton’s apple fell downwards, the harrow with my tiny hands clinging to it came away from the hay and I was pinned helpless to the ground.

I have memories of my father running towards me. He prised me from under the harrow and in a few quick strides deposited me in the bed beside my mother. I was reliving my dramatic accident but was silenced when looking among the sheets I saw a tiny head covered with red curls. It was my baby brother, Tom, not one hour old.

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