Hungry shoes ate a cracked wheat biscuit and surrendered to the tarmac. sweet prospect of hitch hiking waits on unknown a-roads. Irish times cross the border with frozen beef in the boot, you're a star, you're a star. From Newry to Carlingford on a summer's day.

John Barleycorn must die. The buses are all done. Belfast has gone. Say goodbye to the redbrick. Hallo green grass and the placid blue sea.

Gossiping and stepping up and around town, there are fishing boats and some dead ends. But it costs ten pence to have your things put in a shopping basket. We step out onto the harbour wall. This is a heatwave. Dublin is not far away. But the taxi driver cuts a mean city in two.

So is that a windmill an old church a fairy glen or the sight of our mother in blue? Grottos are two a penny here.

I take a tumble and bring out the pac-a-mac.

Sure its getting moist now.

Very moist.

So when I say go, we'll go. Ok?

GO!

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