Lough Swilly laid in its bay still and flat as a mirrow and somehow blind for only colour would reflect but not shapes. Looking from Stragill, Inch sat on mist. The sunset on the way home was fierce in its fire, clouds turned red as it extincted behind the hills. From the Atlantic a band of full-bellied rain moved in to cross the Swilly and Inch towards Grianan on what would become a very frosty night. A few premature snowflakes leaked out at Father Hegarty’s Rock but the band kept rushing, trapped in the tunnel of the Lough, surrounded by the walls of its hills with only one way out. Ridding itself of its weight to overcome this obstacle. And so it begins.
In the countless gaps of Grianan this water will freeze overnight. Expand its volume and out off sight devour the cruel contraption of blemished labour. Existing gaps and cracks will increase during a frosty winter. Grianan is being left with not a leg to stand on against collapse.