Bemused by the selective memories of his 'Irish Times' colleagues in the recent Back Home series, Seán MacConnell recalls a typical Fermanagh summer holiday.

When I was growing up among the dreary spires of Fermanagh in the 1950s, summer holidays were for the rich or the waged. Not for us ordinary rural folk did the dunes of Lahinch, the amusement arcades of Salthill or the diving boards of Portrush beckon.

The average junior citizen of south Co Fermanagh was handed a pitchfork on the first day of the summer holidays and pointed towards the nearest hayfield. There, weather permitting, we slaved until the hay was won and the war to get the turf out of the bog and home for the winter resumed, just before we escaped back to school.

We used to jokingly ask a bachelor neighbour, who rejoiced in the nickname "Paddy My Arse", where he was going on his summer holidays. His comment on life was always the same and gives some clue to his nickname: "Summer holidays, my arse," he would say.

The hayfield was never my favourite place. The stubble cut bare feet and the refreshments, bread and margarine served with cold tea from lemonade bottles, were never either tasty or filling.

It would be grossly unfair to suggest that this form of child abuse continued all through the summer. It did not. We were allowed our freedom on wet days and on other specified outings.

The first of these was the annual pilgrimage to see the Fermanagh GAA team being knocked out of the Ulster championship on its first outing. It was as regular as the arrival of the cuckoo.

If you were finding the going too tough in the hayfields, it was permissible, on religious grounds, to go off fasting for a three-day pilgrimage to Lough Derg in Co Donegal. There you had to remain awake for the first 36 hours, sustained only by dry toast, black tea and the pure dint of prayer. Pilgrims were normally eaten alive by midges as they paraded around the island in their bare feet on the rough stones.

Our parish also had an annual Pioneer Total Abstinence Association pilgrimage, to Knock in Co Mayo. There, now, was a day out. By the time the bus had crossed the Border, the young pilgrim's mouth would be as dry as the desert from lashing out Hail Marys to keep pace with the ould ones who persisted in saying the Rosary for the 100-mile round journey. Once there, you could buy holy medals and holy pictures and rosary beads to your heart's content and forget both the hay and the bog for one glorious day.

On the last Sunday in July, if your religious fervour had not burned out, you might head to Croagh Patrick in Co Mayo to scramble - barefoot, of course - to the mist-covered top. There, you could confess to imagined sins of lust and longing in the open air to the priests who stood outside the little church in a line, processing sinners much as the old mowing machines tossed grass.

But most of the youngsters from south Co Fermanagh did manage to get at least one day at the seaside, and for us that was at Bundoran, Co Donegal. Public transport did not run on Sundays, so the trip had to be made mid-week or on a Saturday, assuming that (a) you had money, (b) it was raining, or (c) there was no hay or turf to be saved.

They don't call it "bracing Bundoran" for nothing. The wind always seemed to be coming from the Arctic, sending the visitors huddling under Rougey Rock, which dominates the seafront.

There you could rent, by the hour, a pair of bathing togs (often still wet), for three old pence, and dip your suitably attired body in the coolest outdoor swimming-pool this side of Alaska. Even allowing for the fact that we used to be a little bit concerned about who had last worn the togs, the annual glimpse of the sea had to be better than being stuck in a hayfield between two drumlins.

You might even be able to afford a trip out into the bay on what was known as "The Duck". This was the last remaining Irish-based second World War amphibian beach-landing craft operating in the European theatre in one of the few parts of Europe which had not been ravaged by the war.

Tourists could pay their money and be taken for "a spin" on the Atlantic waves, making sure not to put their head up over the side to look at the scenery because they would get drenched. "Duck," you were told, and duck you did. Ah, for those heady days. I often think Paddy was right. Summer Holidays, My Arse.