From my earliest days, until I left the farm as a young man in 1945, potato baskets were in daily use.

Just before I left, I acquired an old banger of a motorbike, and dismantled the engine. It was into an old potato basket, lined with sacking, that I put all the pieces, in case I lost some on the workshop floor.

In the event, I had a few over when I thought I had it correctly re-assembled! But I was 'misusing' potato baskets long before that.

My mother used an over-size potato basket as a clothes' basket (She had no nylons or dainty lingerie to snag).

I recall being chivvied as a toddler for climbing into a basket and using it as a rocker with my legs dangling over the end of it.

My father was adept at balancing a full basket on his hip, and also at pouring the contents into the narrow mouth of a potato sack, without spillage.

Many a time I had to carry the hurricane lamp for him on a winter's evening as he carried turnips to the pulper and pushed an empty potato basket below the machine with his toe to collect the pulp for the cows.

The potato baskets were indispensable when the apples were ripe. A cushion of clean com straw (not hay, which breeds mites) had to be used for the soft Kemp apples.

The hardy Bramley seedlings just got the bare basket. But anyone who is familiar with the rich aroma of the Kemp, will realise why they got kid glove treatment.

Once we laid them singly on the floor of the attic, their sweet presence was unmistakable.

Even the worn-out basket which had shed its bottom, was not without use. At home, one was regularly used to protect some 'clockin' hen as she sat on her eggs in the corner of the outhouse.

Mind you, my father didn't let the bottom rot out of many baskets.

He had special wooden pegs which he used as scalpels to clean all the soil off them, and the new or nearly-new ones, were carefully scraped and washed clean before they were stored away, Only the older ones were allowed to be used for odd jobs.

Two scenes in particular have been vividly recalled by the sight of Alred's basket.

Its newness has reminded me of the thrill my father's unloading a bale of newly-bought ones from the horse-drawn van.

They came in a bale, like a stack of hats for a hatter's shelf, mid-green in colour with the distinctive odour of freshly-cut osiers.

Each a thing of beauty contrasting with the earthy environment of the farmyard. When the bale was opened, I remember as a small boy being allowed to use an upturned one as a stool.

We weren't allowed to sit on an old one - for obvious reasons.

The bottom would have caved in, with age they became very brittle.

That Was the advantage of new baskets. They were virtually indestructible. Mind you, we didn't get some every year.

The second scene is set at- the far end of the sand field on my father's farm, near Morrow's Hill.

Two bay horses attached to a potato-digger stand docilely in mid-field. Another horse, a 2-year-old black one, called Paddy, is grazing at the ditch back, wearing cart harness. Three carts are spaced out, one at the middle and one at either end of the potato plot.

A drill has just been scattered and the bright blue Aran Victory crop glistens in the thin rays of October sunshine.

It is evening and there is a trace of frost, which sharpens every sound, so much so that the steam train, puffing and protesting as it ascends Beckett's Hill, and chortling with glee as it runs downhill beyond it towards Lurgan, sounds as if it were in the next field, whereas it is nearly a mile away.

The pungent small of freshly-spread soil and potato stalks is very invigorating.

There are six members of the family, working in pairs, each pair with a basket, gathering the harvest - my older brothers and my father. I am too young to be useful, but allowed to help my dad.

Soon her interrupts picking the potatoes to fetch Paddy to draw home a loaded cart. When he sets off, I plod along behind, swinging on the tram of the cart.

A loud grind from the wheels tells me that we are out on the road. My father has the reins tied to the forebar, for Paddy needs no driver.

The aroma of Clarke's perfect plug tobacco floats back to me, from my father's pipe. Perhaps it was the gathering frost which caused me to notice it that time in particular for I was well used to it.

On the way back, I get a ride in the empty cart and I am ever allowed to drive. Paddy doesn't need to be told that there is a rookie on the flight-deck.

He just plods on, regardless of which rein I pull. He knows what he has to do - an achievement which was to come in very useful, very soon.

I had no means of foreseeing then that within one week, I was destined to make a vastly different trip, behind another jet back horse, but with a very different equipage.

On this occasion, there was to be no grind of ironshod wheel on stone, no clink of trace-chain on shaft.

All would be silent, except for the sound of the horse's hooves as the rubber-tyred carriage purred along, instead of the wind in my hair, there was to be the stuffy polish-ladden atmosphere of a closed cab.

At journey's end, I was to savour once more the odour of freshly-turned soil, but instead of the cheerful rumble of potatoes falling into a cart, there was to be the macabre rattle of soil and pebbles on a bare coffin lid.

My father had gathered his last harvest.

But at least his faithful steed, Paddy, had had the satisfaction of bringing him home safely in the trap, when the hand which held the reins had lost its grip. That was the sure grip that I had depended on for so long.

Always it had been mine which had faltered, not his, as he chanted: "One, two three - up!" while he swung a basket full of potatoes onto the cart, heeled up on its trams in the potato patch.