The view from the field is spectacular. Behind us rises the mountain, Round Seefin: domed, treeless, majestic. At the very top it is grey with scree, descending into dark brown scrubby heather, and then green patches of grass dotted with sheep. The pastures are chased with the thin lines of human activity, a palimpsest of walls and lanes. The lower slopes and hedgerows crackle with yellow whin bushes; the light breeze carries the faint scent of coconut from them. The field and lane are bordered by imposing dry stone walls. Built of round boulders and large rocks, there are gaps through which daylight can be seen, but this is not a sign of poor construction: they have impassively withstood scores of punishing Mourne winters. In front of us, beyond the neat white cottage and a scattering of ash trees, can be glimpsed the azure line of the sea, etched on the background of pale haze. The sky over us is almost cloudless, just a few thin wisps of cirrus.
Mercifully, summer had finally arrived for the wee girl’s first camping trip. Up till yesterday the weather had been atrocious. I’d had visions of the rain bucketing out of the heavens, drumming off the flysheets; cold, miserable children running barefoot through the freezing downpour to snuggle up with their parents in the warmth of the house. But the girls had slept soundly, cosy in their sleeping-bags and layered blankets; no frights, no drama. She’d been excited; looking forward to it so much. I am happy that it had worked out perfectly; we’d all had a brilliant time. But now, in the early evening, it’s time to go home to Belfast. We pack up and climb into the car.
My daughter is in the front next to me, and our friend in the back. As we crunch gingerly down the rutted, rocky, potholed lane, the stones rattling alarmingly on the bottom of the car, the scene in front of us changes constantly; in one place the whins have caught fire, and stand in charred clumps, some of them miraculously still flowering atop their blackened stalks. Further down, the view opens up and we can see the expanse of the sea more clearly – we are surrounded by bright primary colours: yellow flowers, blue sea and sky. The wee girl chats away to us; it’s a proper six-year-old conversation: oh daddy! The car doesn’t like this road; and, look! A pigeon! Then, as we roll gently onto smoother gravel, her tone changes and she enunciates solemnly, like a Victorian spiritualist: Deep and hollow, in a dark, weakening sky. I ask her where she got the quote from. I made it up, she says nonchalantly. Mary, in the back, is as stunned as I am, and asks her to say it again; she repeats it effortlessly. The line is totally out of context with the beauty all around us, and the light, cheerful talk. There is nothing melancholy about her; she’s now happily chuntering on about swimming. I recall the sight of my dead, sunken eyes in the bathroom mirror this morning; it’s a different landscape in there, alright. But how does she know?
Vernacularisms 
That movie we talked about is called “Seance On A Wet Afternoon” Richard Attenburgh
I was there in the back seat. it just came out of nowhere, and Jason didn’t really think, nor did i because it was a beautiful blue sky and we were driving down to the sea and she just said “Deep and hollow, in a dark and weakening sky..” Jason and i sort of laughed a bit and then said nothing.
I think we were a bit gobsmacked. I remember asking her to say it again, after a while, which she did, and asking her where she got it. I thought maybe she’d heard it somewhere, but no, she made it up herself. The twist at the end is, of course, fictional.
Your opening paragraph would have been greatly admired by Percy French as he penned a certain song that I suspect you’re agreeably familiar with Jason. This contrasts with the runic juvenile perspicacity and your intriguing closing words. Your lexicon here is only surpassed by the variegation it described – well done.
Thanks Mike, your feedback is very welcome. Yes, I know the particular song you have in mind. I’m glad the wee twist at the end intrigued you.
Ah, a much deeper ending…
Thanks Ernie, I think it wasn’t clear enough before. Got to have a twist at the end!
Good! Inspired by the trip to Minnie’s?
I like the description of the car going down the lane. Reminds me of family holidays in Donegal in the wee old Suzuki jeep that we had, the boys sitting in the ‘very back’ (parents in front, girls in the back and the boys in the very back) where their heads would hit off the roof at each unexpected bump.
Great desicription of the rich visual stimulation provided on a sunny day in the Mournes. So many colours and shapes and snapshots, changing as you move or as the clouds move. Love it!
Sorry Jason, I saw this earlier and thought it was Susan’s !
No swimming Ernie. Dead giveaway!
Good story, Susan 🙂
Ahem.
Thanks Ernie!