Romie Lambkin

Faster, faster, onwards to the recuperative granite block seat opposite the gannet colony inlet a quarter of a mile on.

Our territory, shrieked the sheer rock-faced inhabitants, their grim grey cliff only flashed and dashed to life by ceaseless white feathery flights and years-long guano streakings.

The water swirls white and wicked at the base, even today, aiding and abetting their inaccessibility.

Just beyond the inlet, black cormorants plop and play from islanded amber rock outcrops, before settling down to preen their sleekness sleeker, long necks sometimes stretching as if listening, as I do, to the faint heat-haze pooh-poohs of the foghorn dwindling to silence, as well it might now the sunshine glitters Killiney Hill's house windows into diamonds.

A golden Labrador's coal-black nose nuzzled my knee, bored by his bird-watching owners.

Time for me to walk on, be gone, without begrudging Sunday people what is normally mine alone, tramping alongside last summer's fire-blackened stretch of hillside, a fire so great an in-flight Aer Lingus pilot radioed in the alarm.

Ferns are beginning to grow in and out of the gorse's charcoal branches.

No sign of returning heather, though, and if a notorious hill cottage replacement plan is ever allowed to proceed, despite hundreds of us protests marching against it, none ever will.

I cool a rising temper at the thought, looking down the V-shaped track to hidden heavenly swims before I climb up to a hoath-summit world of car-parked explorers drifting to sleep behind Sunday newspapers.

My ancient hip joints stride loose and free down Ballkill Road's steep slope, passing a once-upon-a-time village school where Hoth's pipe band whirls and scurls on Sundays.

Today, it's lonely Piper's sustained heart-call note winging me round the corner back home.