...which sounds like a Vaughan Williams piece or something from A Shropshire Lad, but is in fact ten minutes walk up the hill behind Tinseltown in the Rain. Seven hundred feet up with views up and down the Lough and over to Scotland if the weather permits. (It seldom does) The chief reason was slimmeroftheyea wanted me to see the bluebell wood before we lost them for this year, and glorious they were; blue beneath the broken ash woodland cover and of a peculiar mass ephemeralness. Then on and up to Dradnaught Wood at the topof the hill, which is one of the Trafalgar woods --the politics of planting something to commemorate Trafalgar in Ireland does baffle me, but so does almost everything about the N. Ireland beast. You learn to live with the contradictions, in fact, to embody them. The sun shone, the wind blew from the south, the gorse filled the air with the soft, startlingly tropical scent of coconut and it was that very simple glory of moment, and moment only; all of this half a mile as the byte flies from this keyboard.