The shaggy pony clopped down the lane, accompanied by the cries “Knives sharpened, pans repaired.”
Some in the village hurried their children indoors, and others retrieved their laundry, still damp, from the airing lines.
Old man O’Brien, usually not a violent man, stood arms crossed in front of his door, a camán resting against his leg.
The message was clear. These redheaded Tinkers were not welcome, no – not since that unfortunate incident last April.