Some bonehead was banging on about erosion. “Dolomites… Peru... Kathmandu…” Everywhere you could name-drop into 30 seconds - with the effect on Cra of nails on a blackboard. Lord spare us from such fools, who protect Giant Hogweed in Oxford Street, while indescribable horrors befall brother human beings on their own doorstep. Also in the company, is McG - of few words but each, incisive. Ossified brain-pan clatters on about catastrophe - and up pipes McG - “Artificial. Artificial - it’s all artificial”. Reader, within living memory of your great-great-grandfather’s great-great-grandfather (-ish) the barren rock that gneiss-noggin is sitting on, would be under a verdant sward or dappled by sunbursts from larch, ash, oak and birch. Wild boar are scolding their weanlings and bear and bobcat hold sway across the diversest of flora and fauna. Within a couple of centuries, another bone-head, inside a pullover with legs, has turned the natural magic that mesmerised celts, iberians, vikings, britons, normans…. into the romantic wilderness that now occupies empty heads. These lummoxes are back in the Mournes - no more watering holes for us, unless you want crypto spirididoodle to bury itself so far into your offal department that the only cure is to shoot yourself with a silver bullet. A tenuous link - what are our views about the erudite, literate, endlessly knowledgable and thoroughly affable Nicholas Crane being replaced in the Beeb’s COAST, by a Scottish corner boy with bad hair and even worse dental work? Crane’s own prog yesterday covered some oul English doll, looking for England on 2 wheels, and 2 legs: and the thesis? Get up off your “h” and find real Ireland instead of l’Hotel du Lac. However, if you like Peru, go back there - and drink plenty of the water.