A day in the country.

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The waters of the firmament above me appear to be baby blue under the influence of the rising sun as it climbs into view from beyond the eastern mountains. Where there are small straggles of cloud, their edges are tinged apricot when the suns rays bounce off them. The air is cold but the river bank is alive with birds pecking for worms in the soft mud. Steam rises upwards from piles of fresh business dropped by grazing horses, and the chances of me coming across a pair of romping lovers in the leafy bower upstream from the bridge are mercifully slight, and so I continue on my bimble along the banks of the Shimna and up into the Mournes. The town that sits on the shore where the river disembogues into the sea is a sad, mean little place with cafes that promise much but fail to deliver. Its only laudable function is to provide a generous car park for people like me who want to enjoy everything that lies beyond Newcastle’s boundaries.