It's Sunday February 4th 2007. Cold as the Devil's heart outside, yet a great deal warmer inside, after the spectacle I was privileged to watch this early morning.
I return, like a compass to north, to Priory Park at every possible opportunity.
I played there as a boy. I courted there as a besotted teenager. I discovered contemplation there in manhood.
Now, closing rapidly on my sixtieth birthday, not so good on the legs as I was, I return weekly to my roots - if only to look out of the car window.
Back to this morning.
A man. Booted, hatted, wrapped against the frost, scoured the verges, hedgerows, pathways, and gutters armed with a stick. He was collecting litter in a plastic bag. A sort of Womble.
This was not the cursory glance of a council worker. This was an avid eradication of detritus that comes from a deep love of his environment.
To my shame I did not get out of the car, ask his name, shake his hand, or thank him.
I'd never heard of FoPP
To the unknown 'warrior' may I say: "Thank you, Sir. More strength to your elbow".