Rain fell on Carlingford Lough, and mist ribboned around the Cooley Mountains. There was something fine about being the only souls out and about in such weather. The fuchsia bushes clinked silently with rain diamonds along the granite walls of the steep green lane above Carlingford town, and Slieve Foye hid its rugged face behind a veil of mist.
Turning round for the view at the saddle of Golyin Pass, we watched the Mourne Mountains across Carlingford Lough change from milky green to
a gauzy, moth-wing grey as the rain brushed them up in its skirts. A minute more and we had changed too, from dry humans to glistening seals.
Looking west from the gap over the landscape of the Táin Bó Cuailnge, that
