The earliest story from my family history, which we've all agreed is the most distant past recollection of an actual family event, is from Cashel way back when my Grandmother (RIP) was just a child of seven.
This one day she was sent out on her daily chores, which were various, but included the collecting of the eggs from the hen-house at the bottom of the garden. I say garden but it was actually a really huge field of potatoes, vegetables and what-not for domestic use.
Anyway, it was far enough away from the house that she couldn't hear that the place was being raided by a troop of Black and Tans. While they were inside tearing the house apart looking for something or other and terrorising my Great-Grandparents, she was down the field collecting the eggs. But they came down to the hen-house for a look around there too.
They opened the shed door and saw her standing there with the basket full of eggs and pointed rifles at her. They told her to put the basket down. She couldn't do it as she was so frightened, so one of them booted the basket out of her hands and sent the eggs flying. When they saw there was nothing else in the basket, they walked away, the one guy covered in egg splat.
She told it in such a way, between the child-like giggles, that she recalled how she thought that now he had so many colours on him, she didn't know whether to call him a Black and Tan man or a stream of scutter.



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