On the road from Enniskillen to Belcoo there’s a bend near the village at exactly the point where a beautiful, whitewashed, thatched cottage comes into view.

In front of it, a European Heritage sign says ‘Margaret Gallagher’s Home. Listed Building Grade A.’

Having met both the owner and the house on several visits, my feeling is that a star symbol should be added to this accolade.

This picture-postcard house is ‘Mullylusty’, and it’s where Margaret Gallagher (81) was born and has always lived.

The moniker alone is as intriguing as the abode and its keeper. A townland name, it means the summit of the rich plot – a reference to the heritage, culture and traditional folklore of the area rather than the tilled soil.

Life in this 200-year-old homestead is much as it was when it was built and Margaret wouldn't have it any other way.

There's no running water, no electricity and no gas.

Several visits to this irresistible place and many engrossing conversations with its charismatic owner continue to strengthen my belief that this is a house that lives in Margaret as much as she lives in it.

Her grandfather bought it in 1887 from his cousin, James Magee, who was emigrating to America.

As well as the dwelling house, the purchase included a dairy, a hen house and a thatched byre which was restored in 1953 when the thatch was replaced by a tin roof and the walls were straightened.

Other than this, the house and outbuildings remain exactly as they have always been.

The cottage is surrounded by dry stone walls which in Fermanagh means pure stone on top of stone and no mortar.

The well-stocked wood pile favours ash and oak, which Margaret says are the best burners for a hearth fire.

By her own admission, she goes through a fortune and is ‘hard on firing’.

She needs a good constant flame for baking, washing and the teapot that never cools near her front door which over the years has welcomed a steady stream of visitors from near and far.

The heat of the fire is powerful, and Margaret is grateful for a strong drawing brace in a wide hearth that generates very little in the way of smoke inside, but produces the enticing smell of turf outside.

In Mullylusty, a coat in the house is surplus to requirements. The floor has large flagstones which accommodate a sofa and a comfy seat beside the window with a single burner lamp on the sill.

There are double burners as well which produce twice as much light.

The house is divided between what Margaret calls an upper and an under room. An avid reader, the bedroom could double as a library and contains many well-thumbed cherished books.

She has fond childhood memories of Saturday nights when a bath pan was filled from a black pot and lifebuoy or sunlight soap used for the ritual hair washing.

The best part was being wrapped in a heated towel afterwards, and drying off in front of the blazing fire.

Margaret’s great joy in life is coming back to her own things in her own home. In this case, familiarity has bred respect and a deep affection for the homeplace that she wouldn’t swap for a royal palace.

At first light every morning she walks to the well outside to fill two buckets with water that is as pure as crystal.

Born in February under the sign of Aquarius, the water carrier, the irony of this daily chore is not lost on her.

In winter this precious resource is icy cold, and despite the fact that spring water is not supposed to freeze, Margaret begs to differ.

She brings it in from the threat of frost at night and bottles it for convenience. The landscape around the twin villages of Belcoo and Blacklion is blanket bog and the route to the well affords stunning views of Cuilcagh mountain, the Marble Arch Caves and the Hanging Rock limestone cliff near Florencecourt.

Mullylusty Christmases were special occasions. Walking with her mother, father and older sister over the hills to Holywell church for Midnight Mass marked the end of a busy Christmas Eve that ensured everything was ready for the much anticipated dinner with all the trimmings the next day.

These days, if Margaret is at home for Christmas, she cooks a small chicken in her pot oven with roast spuds, plenty of vegetables and an ample supply of gravy.

She well remembers the years when food was not in plentiful supply, and meat was scarce. The family reared and butchered their own pigs at a time when in many respects life was much simpler and perhaps the real meaning of the season was more fully understood.

Stockings were hung up carefully for Santa and the two Gallagher girls were up with the skylarks on Christmas Day delighting in the discovery of a precious apple or orange inside.

When she was maybe eight or nine years old, Margaret remembers getting a painting book and feeling like she’d won the lottery.

Mixing the paints with water and creating a mess was heaven on earth, providing hours of entertainment for the wide-eyed siblings.

When she was only 10 years old, Margaret’s mother died of meningitis. In time, her older sister left to continue her education.

Margaret attended the village school until she was 14, and rather than go to secondary school, she decided to help her father run the farm.

It was from him that she developed her voracious reading habit and an encyclopaedic knowledge of the flora, fauna and folklore of the area to which she is so deeply connected.

At one stage there was a trend to restore, repair and improve cottages like Mullylusty.

This was never an option that her family considered. In later life, her father was bedridden as a result of degenerative rheumatism, and could not be moved.

There was little money and no desire to make any concessions to the trappings of modern living.

She is also a firm believer in the old adage that if something isn’t broken, then it definitely doesn’t need fixed.

In winter, the whiter than white limewashed walls of the cottage blend in with the first fall of virgin snow, creating an idyllic image that even the most talented artist would find difficult to recreate.

Whilst it may be pleasing to the eye, years of experience have taught Margaret that snow is the enemy of a thatched roof.

The timbers are plugged with bits of wood rather than nailed together, and melting snow on the roof can create a dangerous situation which could potentially displace the wooden rafters.

Ten years ago, the thatch bore the scars of a prolonged period of severe weather, creating ridges on the roof where the frozen snow lay for a long time, making it difficult to remove.

Margaret improvised with a long fishing rod, to which she attached cloths and spent many nights trying to dislodge the stubborn, bulky mass.

She was fighting a losing battle, and resolved to get a new coat of thatch the following year.

We surmised that this might be the roofing equivalent of a schoolboy coming from the barber’s after a short back and sides looking fresh, trim, neat and tidy.

She continues to make boxty in exactly the same way that she watched her mother do it and knows the recipe and method inside out and back to front.

The crook over the fire is dusted with a goose's wing or clump of heather to remove any soot which might fall into the pot of spring water which is brought to the boil over the fire.

Mashed and grated potatoes are bound together with flour, baking soda, a pinch of salt and cows’ milk.

The Mullylusty way is to roll out the doughy mix on a floury table, cut out ‘hurleys’ using the rim of a mug, and then place them in the boiling water for half an hour.

She fries them in butter, before slicing, and advises that they be eaten soon afterwards, ideally beside the heat of a turf fire.

Margaret’s boxty is as irresistible and heartwarming as time spent in her company.

She considers it her great personal fortune to have what she has. For her, it is a treasure beyond value and one with which she would never part.

This is a woman at peace with herself, her surroundings and the place where she comes from

Hers was a conscious decision to continue as she always has and live in the same way that her mother and father did.

Margaret regards her way of life as a bounteous gift. It’s an endowment that she has unwaveringly nurtured and appreciated for as long as she can remember.

To live in the same house for an entire lifetime is quite something.

To cherish each moment of such an experience is remarkable. This is indeed treasure beyond compare, hidden in plain sight in the Fermanagh landscape.

To recognise this and appreciate its immense value requires great wisdom.

There can be no doubt that Margaret Gallagher and Mullylusty cottage are an enlightened match made in heaven.

Long may their bright star shine.