The Summer of 1976

The summer of 1976 in Northern Ireland was unlike any other. I was five years old, too young to understand just how rare it was, but old enough to feel that it was special. For two whole months, July and August, the sun blazed down from a sky so blue it looked almost painted. It was a heatwave, something unheard of in our part of the world. The adults worried about the lack of rain, and a hosepipe ban was put in place to conserve water. But to me, none of that mattered. All I knew was that the world was bright and warm, and every day felt like an endless adventure.

Of course, rules were made to be broken—at least, according to my brother. He was seven years older than me, and in my five-year-old eyes, he was the ringleader of all things fun and mischievous. One afternoon, despite the hosepipe ban, he turned the tap on and sprayed me with icy cold water. I remember the shock of it, the way I gasped and then laughed as the cold droplets sparkled in the sunlight.

And there I was—standing in the back garden in my bathing suit, but, of course, still wearing my socks. I loved wearing socks, no matter the occasion. It didn’t matter if it was the middle of summer or if I was supposed to be barefoot like everyone else. The idea of going without them just felt wrong. So there I stood, dripping wet, my socks squelching with water, while my mum lay on a sunbed nearby, soaking up the rare heat. It’s one of those crystal-clear images that sticks in my mind, a snapshot of childhood frozen in time.

Our house was full—five of us under one roof, plus two pets. My mum and dad, my older sister, my brother, and me. My sister was eleven years older than me, and we shared a room, which must have been a trial for her. At sixteen, she was on the edge of adulthood, while I was still in that stage of wide-eyed wonder, asking endless questions and wanting to be included in everything. But most of the time, she wasn’t home much—she was always out with her boyfriend, Norman. He was lovely and good fun, always making me laugh whenever they babysat me while Mum and Dad were out.

Dad was away a lot. He worked as Sales Director for Ireland at a company called GEC, which meant he often had to travel to England for business. I missed him when he was gone, but I always knew he’d bring me back a bar of Cadbury Fruit & Nut. Without fail, as soon as he got home, he’d pull it out of his suitcase with a grin and start singing Everyone’s a fruit and nut case, just like in the ad. It became our little ritual, one I waited for every time he went away.

Mum, on the other hand, was always busy. She ran her own fish and chip shop, working long hours, sometimes late into the night. The shop was in a posh suburb called Ballyholme, where appearances mattered and people liked things just so. After closing up for the night, she would take Skip, our ever-faithful dog, to Ballyholme, and he had a very specific job—collecting all the fish and chip wrappers that people had discarded. He was brilliant at it, trotting along the pavements, picking up each wrapper in his mouth and bringing it back to Mum. The locals would complain if the streets weren’t kept clean, but Skip made sure they never had a reason to.

Then there were our animals at home. Skip, our black and white border collie, was a bundle of energy, always ready for a game or a chase. And then there was Dougal, my dark grey cat. He was named after Dougal the dog from The Magic Roundabout, which seemed entirely normal to me at the time but makes me smile now. Dougal had that classic cat attitude—distant when he wanted to be, affectionate on his own terms. But he was mine, and I adored him.

At the bottom of our garden, there was a tree—an old, sturdy thing with roots that curled and twisted at its base. That tree held magic. Not just because of its size or the way its leaves rustled in the breeze, but because of what my brother told me. He swore that while we were sleeping, the fairies would come out and dance beneath the branches, their tiny feet barely touching the grass.

I believed him completely. I never saw them, of course, but that only made it more exciting. Every morning, I would run to the tree, searching for the tiniest trace of their presence—a petal left behind, a shift in the way the grass was flattened, a feeling in the air that something had happened in the night. It never occurred to me to doubt him. In my five-year-old mind, if my brother said it was true, then it had to be.

When I wasn’t playing in the garden, I was running up and down the driveway, singing Skippy the Bush Kangaroo at the top of my lungs. I don’t know why I loved it so much, but the theme tune had found a home in my head, and I sang it over and over, imagining myself racing through the outback with Skippy by my side. Little did I know that 33 years later, I would end up moving to the very place Skippy the Bush Kangaroo came from—the land down under.

Skip, my ever-loyal companion, followed my every move. He ran alongside me, matching my speed, his tongue lolling happily as I sang and raced up and down, lost in my own little world. But one day, my excitement got the better of me. My foot caught on Skip as he ran ahead of me, and I tripped, tumbling forward with no time to catch myself. I hit the hard concrete driveway headfirst.

Panic stations.

I don’t remember much about those first few moments, only the sharp pain and the sound of voices around me, worried and urgent. My mum scooped me up, rushing me to the car. My sister sat in the front seat, holding me on her lap, pressing a towel against my head. The towel turned red quickly—so much blood, more than I’d ever seen before.

The drive to the hospital felt endless, though I’m sure it was only minutes. Everything was a blur of motion and pain, my mother’s voice, my sister’s arms around me. When we finally arrived, doctors and nurses took over, voices calm but firm as they examined the wound.

Stitches. I needed stitches.

I don’t remember crying, though I must have. I don’t remember much about the hospital at all—just the feeling of something pulling at my skin, the steady hands of the doctor, and my mother’s reassuring presence beside me. And then it was over.

I still have the scar to prove it. A tiny mark, a reminder of that summer, of running too fast, of a loyal dog who was always by my side, of a childhood full of songs, stories, and scraped knees.

That summer felt endless, as only childhood summers can. When the heatwave finally broke, it felt like the world exhaled. The skies darkened, the rain returned, and life went back to normal. But that summer never faded from my memory.

Even now, I can close my eyes and be back there—five years old, standing in the garden in my wet socks, laughing as the cold water from the hose sprayed around me. And if I run my fingers over my forehead, I can still feel the faint line of the scar, a little reminder of a childhood well-lived.

Take care,

NM