I ventured a few miles up the east coast of the Innishowen peninsula yesterday. There was no real reason for this excursion save the perennial ache for solitude and a desire to be outside, free from the stultifying gloop of people and the nagging worry of reality.
I walked along the shingle beach picking my way through the seaweed thrown up by the last high tide. The day was sunny. You could feel the spring warmth on your skin but there was also a freshness in the air. The light breeze was blowing on shore pushing away any noise from the coastal road and easing back that close fitting skull casing of tension. A solitary oyster catcher paddled vigorously across the mud and silt uncovered by the receding tide. At the junction of mud and water rows of gaunt fence like structures stretched into the Lough. The features of the coastline opposite to me were indistinct, slightly blurred by haze, the view that greets the myope every day.
I see someone else lurch down onto the shingle. Solitude is shattered. The moment is gone. The tension returns.