Three miles of white sand
Fit into my hand
As I look out to sea
Mussenden Temple sets us free

The hills at the top
Look up, what a drop
Teenage time full of fun
Screaming to the bottom of 'the big one'

Forty five degrees to the wind
Sand, grit doesn't rescind
Nowhere to the South
Nearly at the bar mouth

I turn and it blows
My back takes a lift
Portstewart in the distance
I brace for resistance

After the storm the mist forms over Mussenden.
A cargo ship appears to sit still in the bay.
Lit up like a landing beacon at night.
Hardy souls on board.
White sea horses rumble over kelp strewn shores.

Wagtails dart over basalt towers
The strand with it's white sand round the corner.
Donegal, hidden by dreich looks like a far away land.
All is quiet.. nothing to report...calm returns.