Although the West Highlands is known for being wet and windy, this year had been the most dismal that Algy had ever known, so when the sun made a rare appearance he felt a huge sense of relief. It was still remarkably cold for July, but it took more than that to spoil a sunny day. Algy perched on a rock in the sand, with the icy north wind whistling through his feathers, and watched the little waves playing gently on the beach. He could tell that the sea knew it was summer, even if it still felt like winter to him, and the waves made a lovely, soothing sound as they washed around his rock. He was reminded of a poem by Eva Gore-Booth:

The grand road from the mountain goes shining to the sea,
And there is traffic in it and many a horse and cart,
But the little roads of Cloonagh are dearer far to me,
And the little roads of Cloonagh go rambling through my heart.

A great storm from the ocean goes shouting o’er the hill,
And there is glory in it and terror on the wind,
But the haunted air of twilight is very strange and still,
And the little winds of twilight are dearer to my mind.

The great waves of the Atlantic sweep storming on their way,
Shining green and silver with the hidden herring shoal,
But the Little Waves of Breffny have drenched my heart in spray,
And the Little Waves of Breffny go stumbling through my soul.

Listen to the sound of the little waves, just as Algy heard them from his rock.

[Algy is quoting the poem The Little Waves of Breffny by the late 19th/early 20th century Irish poet Eva Gore-Booth.]

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