It is a week since little Christmas, 1912 and a January storm gathers on Ireland's Atlantic coast. In the candle-lit corner of a small West of Ireland cottage a woman:
“…. falls and heaves, holding a tide of tears, A red wire of pain feeds through every vein, Until night unweaves and the child reaches dawn, Outside each other now, she sees him first, Flesh of her flesh, her dreamt son safe on earth”1
However, this mother's joy was shortlived. The experience of having eight previous children told her this child was fighting for its life. The priest and the local doctor were duly summoned and after a number of hours of medical and spiritual …