The to-ings and fro-ings of our little community held a certain fascination for the good burghers of Strabane.

Sunday morning singing could produce its own surprises. On one famous occasion a hymn drew to a close and everybody slowly sat down again. Except my father, who was in his own reverie and oblivious to his now seated comrades. Apparently, he remembered a verse that the others didn’t, namely “O that with yonder sacred throng…” Just as he realised that he was the last man standing, he had already bellowed out, at full volume, just the initial “O”.

The singing especially suited my father. He liked singing and, like many stammerers who sing well but don’t speak fluently, it offered a welcome outlet of emotion and thought. So music had a hallowed place in our house. He sang in choirs. We all charged off to hear him sing in the Male…