THE DULSE MAN COMETH.
The early morning sun spat flickering rays of yellow light across the wee bedroom in Stranocum. Samuel reached across Rosemary's sleeping torso and switched off the alarm clock; this was a special day.
He rose and walked downstairs to the kitchen. A big sneaky fry was just the ticket to get him through the next 48 hours. Four slices of black pudding, three thick pork sausages, two fadge and two sodas hit the pan; eggs later on so that the yolks stay runny. No tomatoes or mushrooms in Samuel's fry up. He was reminded of that Michael Douglas video he'd rented the other week; what was it your man said now? "Lunch is for wimps"? Well, tomatoes in a fry are for people who need a toe up the hole.
The fry went down very nicely with a big pot of stewed tea and the Newsletter (and the Irish News for the GAA fixtures - Samuel's wee secret). He sat back in his favourite kitchen chair and looked through the window at the two wee friends that would make him his fortune over the next two days - The Dulse tree and the Yellow Man Bush.
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It was a long and dangerous drive to Ballycastle. The past few years had been easier since he'd discovered the road bypassing Knocklayde. The rewards were great, but driving a large refrigerated truck full of dried edible seaweed and sticky confectionary struck fear in the hearts of lesser men.
The task was easier now that he didn't have Rosemary in tow. A twinge of guilt touched him as he recalled her talk of getting a new dress at the fair. Focussing solely on the road ahead, Samuel failed to notice the wee quad bike in his rear view mirror buzzing steadily along, and carrying a demented and clearly angry 56 year old Stranocum woman...
