Dreary Belfast for some.

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Most of the people of Ireland stepped out into a watery world today, a world blessed and quieted by rain that’s gentle and soft and thoroughly Irish, and although it is loved and welcomed we like to complain about it. In the narrow rows of narrow houses close into the city, women in slippers and dressing gowns and cigarettes, arms folded tight under untethered bosoms and hair bundled up on top of their heads scurry into neighbour’s houses or herd children out to school and flit in and out of corner shops for bread or milk, and all under grey skies, their faces all drizzle-wetted On days like this it’s difficult to imagine that the grey skies will ever lift and that we will ever see the sun again. I don’t mind about that as I follow the path along the river then up the hill through the forest, excited at the prospect of autumn.