We lay in the long wet grass all night waiting for the pale ghost stream of sunlight that announces the dawn of a typical Irish summer day.
At dusk we had crawled through the river field passing stunted gorse bushes bent arthritically by the constant winds coming off the bare black mountain. We pulled the heavy waterproof bag behind us. It slid across the wet grass trying to slip away from us down the shallow slope to the river.
After an hour we were in place. To escape afterwards we would have to run helter-skelter back to the roadway where a car waited for us. Hopefully.
The British Army observation tower was a mile off, obscured by the black clouds sitting low and heavy across the valley and by sheets of hard rain striking all below. Continue reading “The Pale Ghost Stream by Seamus Scanlon”