Behind me is the East Skeam island in Roaringwater Bay. It's Friday night and I'm heading home, east past Heir and Sherkin Islands, into Baltimore on the South West coast of Ireland, for fun, laughter and a night of singers, songs and songwriters, in Caseys Bar. The lonely outline of the deserted cottage in the grey gold of the evening runs like a movie.The firey sun surrenders like a volcano. Lord Franklin is in my head.