#128 - #111 (17)

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Days like these - Ghin hums the tune and absentmindedly sings the words as we head down to the Bay Tree. It is just ridiculously beautiful. Holywood is at its loveliest. The elections have not appeared on my radar at all despite the hoopla about Sinn Fein winning the First Ministership for the first time in history. A banned organisation which now is the largest in Northern Ireland. I feel weirdly nothing. Twenty years ago I would have felt ... delighted is not the right word. Not even satisfied. But I would have felt something. Now - nothing. The parties have proven that they are singularly unable to find a way forward. Politics is not just broken - it is smashed to pieces and nothing short of catastrophic meltdown will sort things out. Nothing short of it.

Meanwhile there is Ghin - and myself - and the prospect of seeing terns. 

We walk along the foreshore of Holywood, with hundreds of others... we are heading out towards the Harbour though - which is less walked. We pass the Army base, the sewerage works and then we are in the Harbour estate with heavy machinery all around us. We know we have entered giant territory once we pass the 13500 kg anchor. It is a very large anchor. It looks like it was made by giants.

Everything in the estate is gigantic. The boats, the cranes, the tanks that hold Northern Ireland's oil supply. Ghin and I chat as he skates and does silly things - like use the board like a gondola. I would like to try skating again I think... maybe next time. You should take it up again mom. Wear cargo pants and a hoodie. I would be so proud. That would be so lit. Apparently the 90s and back. 

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