Diary: 'What a place to talk of war...'
There was nobody out. The sea was empty as far as Ram Head. I was up before the walkers and runners and the wind had fallen away overnight so that I could hear the morning perfectly. Only myself and the gulls, choughs, cormorants and other birds soaring too far above for me to name.
Across the bay, above Curragh, I could see an occasional car moving along the Dungarvan road. People going to work or maybe an occasional shore fisherman returning after the ebb of the night tide.
I always thought them the loneliest of men, huddled around a storm lamp on the forlorn night beaches as they waited for the twitch (a flatfish) or thump (a bass) that would make the night worthwhile. Then I became one and understood that the loneliness of the surf beaches at night is exquisite. There is no dawn as comforting or true.