A story is told of my father seeing a woman in old fashioned clothes, ragged, with three little children, on a wall at a farm he owned that belonged to his cousin Willie Carty.
He described her as looking like something from 100 years before and she was crying. He turned away, and when he turned back she was gone. On checking the road, there was no-one there. There was no where for them to have gone.
This kind of spectre story is common enough in Ireland, and is one of the many hauntings at Willie Cartys. It is said some people died near there when going to the workhouse, and this story is retold in my poem “Sitting There Saying Nothing“