The women behind the bar began to interrogate me: Where was I from? Where did I live? How had I made my way to St Johnston? The clientele ranged around the horseshoe-shaped bar listened carefully and when I said I had walked they drew in their breath. From Derry? Walked? And was I not tired? I was, I said. The two young men on my right at the bar disappeared to get a guitar and were away for some time. In their absence a smallish man with red hair in the corner, who had been watching me very attentively, was prevailed upon to sing. He took a huge gulp of his drink, cleared his throat and began an extremely heartfelt and high-pitched version of Nobody’s Child with his eyes closed.

There was a thorn in his side, however, in the guise of an old man, who was drunk, and couldn’t stop himself interrupting with comments which I was not able to make out. The woman behind the bar told him to stop and we listened as best we could to the song. As soon as the red-headed man had finished the old man started up. This time I had no di..culty understanding him. His song was about an Orangeman who went to Cavan where he met the devil. It was directed at the previous singer, who, from his protest at the song, I took to be an Orangeman, or at least a Protestant. The women behind the bar tried to stop the old man, but hehad to finish the song, in which the Orangeman ended up in a black hole.

Outside, the summer afternoon was fading fast over the Foyle. It was time to go. There would be plenty of tra..c, they said, I’d have no trouble getting a lift.

I went out and stood on the road. I had made certain arrange-ments with myself about walking. I had made rules. All progress along the border must be on foot, I had agreed. If I wanted to go and see something that was o....my route I could do so by taxi or I could hitch a lift, but every move towards my ultimate destination, Newry, must be on foot, except if there was danger, and then I would do anything – hire a helicopter if necessary – to get out fast.