While the bad old images of the Border are receding into the past, there's a treasure trove of literature that tells the frontier's turbulent story, writes Paul Clements

It was nearly 6pm on a fine summer's day in the 1950s when the travel writer Richard Hayward approached a quiet part of the Border and knocked at the door of the customs hut to have his "triptyque" scrutinised and stamped: "But a farmer near the end of his labour in an adjoining field saw what I was at and called out to me: 'You needn't knock there, Mister. Sure there's no border at this time of the day: the man's away for his tay'." This story is recounted in the opening pages of Border Foray, a "leisurely examination" of the 200-mile Border, featuring its folklore, legend and history, published in 1957. The "triptyque" was an official passport document for his Morris Minor that was valid for 12 months and allowed him to cross the jurisdiction.

But in those days, even with the IRA's Border campaign from 1956-1962 (code-named Operation Harvest by its participants), there seemed to be a relaxed approach to the Border formalities. There were, however, some horrific incidents: in one of the worst, in November 1957, five people died when an IRA bomb was being moved across the Border from Co Louth.

Hayward described the Border as being like the equator, an imaginary line formally based on tradition and ancient territorial law. Smuggling was big business. In south Armagh, he writes, the contrabandisti operated "an efficient system of light signals and bush-telegraph communications" dodging the Customs Prevention Officers or the curiously named Customs Waterguards - known irreverently to locals as "the Water Rats".

In the intervening 50 years, the Border roads saw much destruction and human devastation. Bodies of soldiers, police officers and informers were dumped on it, numerous murders took place along it, and it was a place where on-the-runs fled from the northern security forces. At the height of the Troubles, it was the most dangerous stretch of land in Western Europe, as well as being a heavily fortified frontier. Grim-faced young soldiers with heavy rifles stopped and searched people and cars, demanding details of movements, studying driving licences and other identification documents; hours were often spent by people waiting to cross; isolated unapproved roads were cratered or blocked by heavy slabs of concrete bollards with menacing iron fenders, making them impassable to traffic, and scores of bridges were blown up.

But a foray along the Border in the early 21st century is a world away from this. These days when you cross by road, rail or bus the main indication is the bleep of your mobile phone alerting you to your new network provider. "Welcome to Ireland," says the northern traveller's text heading south, and is often accompanied by a friendly message wishing you a pleasant stay. On the early morning high-speed Enterprise train, within a few minutes of crossing the Border, the collective bleeping of a hundred mobiles tells its own story, disturbing those travellers still in a catatonic trance or dozing over their morning newspaper.

There are of course more visible tell-tale signs. The road signs, finger-posts and post boxes are a different colour, miles become kilometres, and there's considerable fumbling in wallets and purses when people make a transaction switching between currencies. Occasionally the Garda, carrying out random immigration checks, stop the Bus Éireann service just after it crosses the Border south of Newry and board to check identification papers of all passengers.

Apart from Hayward's jolly jaunt, there is a rich tradition of discursive travel books about the Border. Many writers have captured the essence of this hotly-disputed area. In the mid-1970s, Dervla Murphy cycled along it on her bicycle, Roz, which had accompanied her on her journey to India for her first book, Full Tilt. The story of her Irish journey, A Place Apart, has become a timeless classic of travel literature. The third chapter, "Journal of Borderline Cases", explores the topic from a two-wheeled standpoint. She recounts how, as she was pedalling along a back road near Belturbet, Co Cavan, where the locals had been trying to replace a bridge, she was nearly run down by two Irish Army Land-Rovers travelling at high speed. During her wanderings in Leitrim, Cavan, Monaghan and Donegal she often came across what she describes in a footnote as a "fading border" theory or "memory".

A DECADE LATER, in 1987, Colm Tóibín's stark Walking Along the Border is a perfectly-pitched account of a difficult journey through fear and hatred, with the Troubles an ever-present reality. As he walked through the bleak and desolate landscape, Tóibín heard stories from the clergy, politicians, Orangemen and GAA supporters. He spent time talking to farmers, soldiers and Travellers, encompassing all sides of the Border story. He describes crossing between Donegal and Fermanagh: "I knew I was getting close to the Border because the road I was walking on began to deteriorate; the surface was in bad repair. I sat down for a while and listened to the one-thirty news on my small radio. Three RUC men had been killed by the IRA in Newry; James Molyneaux, the leader of the Official Unionist Party, had called on Britain to seal the Border."

Since then, in a short span of 20 years, any thoughts of sealing the Border have vanished. Demilitarisation has taken place along with weapons-decommissioning by paramilitaries. The British army's surveillance watchtowers on mountain tops are gone, the military presence that included Chinook helicopter flights, patrols, searches and vehicle checkpoints are from another century; so too are the activities of the paramilitaries with their culvert bombs, snipers, abductions and ambushes.

Leafing through some of the topographical books on the Border, you realise how they have quickly become vital social documents. A Border Diary by Shane Connaughton is a picture of the Cavan/Monaghan/Fermanagh borderland both before and after the IRA ceasefire of August 31, 1994. One brief sentence from his diary, with the dateline Thursday, September 29th, encapsulates the farcical aspect of it: "I spent the morning driving around the Border roads. Lecky Bridge outside Clones had been opened for the 42nd time by the locals on Sunday and closed by the British on Monday." There have been numerous studies covering the history and political aspects of the Border. One of the most engaging of these comes under the term historical geography, The Irish Border as a Cultural Divide, a remarkable work by a Dutch writer, Dr Heslinga, telling the story behind Partition and first published in 1962. In that same year, which marked the end of the IRA Border campaign, in the AA Road Book of Ireland motorists were supplied with a detailed four-page instruction on "Crossing the Border" that included a stern warning: "It cannot be too strongly stressed that the Border or land frontier between the Republic and Northern Ireland can be crossed only by the 'approved' roads, as shown on the map and listed in the schedule".

The AA map shows all the approved roads as well as mileage details between customs stations and frontier posts. Underneath the listing of approved roads is another more ominous warning in bold type: "A motorist crossing the frontier by roads other then these is liable to very severe penalties, including confiscation of his car." Details are given about the customs duty chargeable on all motor vehicles and the Road Book points out that at important crossings AA Frontier Officers are on duty to assist members.

For 280 miles the Border zigzags its way across hills and drumlins, along windy paths, cuts through small farms and barns, and even bisects villages.

But the days of having your triptyque stamped at the customs huts have long gone - so too have the huts themselves and even the AA Frontier Officers have packed their bags and left. The Border is a quieter place these days, with much lower decibel and stress levels for those living along it.

HISTORIAN JC BECKETT, in his 1973 study A Short History of Ireland, observed that "the conviction was gaining ground that the line of division could not be removed from the map until it had first been removed from the minds of men". New maps of Ireland still show the Border, mostly delineated in a broken black line and classified as an "International Boundary". For some northern motorists living near the Border, the symbolism of crossing it is partly financial, in the form of the Republic's much cheaper petrol and diesel prices. And for many who cross on a regular basis, the old "frontier mentality" appears to be largely a blast from the 20th-century past.

The history books and travellers' tales document the way it was; one thing seems clear, and that is that the only "Border Fox" roaming the fields and back roads nowadays is the one killing sheep, and Hayward's evocative quotation "sure there's no Border at this time of the day" has taken on a whole new meaning.