There is sat, unknowing, and wholly unaware of my existence. This sleeping giant of a hill had no care of what I was about this morning. That is until my presence was made known to it by the rhythmic pounding of my feet. It was as simple as the beauty around me. The hill was there. I breathe. Therefore it needed to know the feel of my feet against its sides. There was no question of whether of not I would run it. No, there question only asked how pure the air would be from the top and what my eyes would see as my soul over-looked the city. Here is Belfast. Here is Stormont. Here is the city and sky and sea. The hill sees this every day, whereas to me it’s as fresh as this morning’s air.
Gazing on in calm, but bored interest, it waits in silence while I take in the feat I am attempting. It requires a bit of sussing to figure out how many fences I must be willing to climb in order to reach the top. I decide to just go, just run to the top, and if there are barriers, then they will be taken care of as they come. Fences were climbed over, holes were jumped over, and the hill was conquered. The view was stunning, and the air breathtaking in its purity.