Belfast, on a misty morning.

A thick blanket of dank smelling mist is lying on top of the river this morning, where the warm water meets with the cold air. The water runs slowly in spite of last night's torrential rain, and there's no-one about. It's early, and the risen sun hasn't found the force to dissipate the mist, but it's vague half light has given the impression of life to the small valley.

Belfast is beautiful on misty days. The gloom is spectacular and penetrates the bones. Rats and shrews rustle tea thick grass on the river bank and foxes prick their ears and lift their noses hoping for something more substantial, like a rabbit. A solitary heron swoops slowly out of the mist and down the river bed to stand statuesque in the shallows, patient as ever.