
The memories I have of my paternal grandmother, Máirín Beaumont, mostly involve sweets. She lived with me in Dublin until her death in 1972, when I was five. Our house, a long bungalow by the sea, was divided in two with my grandmother living in the top end and my family (dad, mum and three sisters) occupying the bottom end.
I would regularly flee to the top end to seek refuge and comfort from my maimeó (Irish for granny) following some misdemeanour or an altercation with my older sisters. This resulted in the doling out of sugar cubes or butterscotch sweets from what seemed to be an endless supply hidden away in her kitchen cupboards.