"It is a glorious, glorious Twelfth of July," said the Lambeg drummer as he unburdened himself, stressing the second adjective for mock effect. Setting his massive drum down gently on the wet ground, he looked up at the brightening sky wishing for the gloom and clinging drizzle to lift.
The south Antrim venue had been switched from a nearby field to what looked like a disused site of sorts, but at least we could walk on the relative comfort of concrete.
It was the 317th anniversary of the Boyne and the 90th of Passchendaele and, to be honest, it was easy to draw parallels (minus the blood). The steady rain ran rivulets of mud and manure, but it was preferable to the bogs of fields all around.
Vacant summer chairs sat hopelessly vacant as the women and young children clustered under brollies and awaited the arrival of their men. Burger bars and chippers stocked up supplies in advance while a man on the back of a truck brewed up vast urns of tea with a gas boiler borrowed from a different age.
It was hard to be jolly. The bouncy castle stood empty due to the misfortune of the morning weather. The large slide, brought in for the day, had been abandoned. Two men worked the crowd from their Creation stall, extolling the truths of Genesis and the greatness of God. We are cordially invited back in September for a Creation Weekend and discussions about Dinosaurs and the Bible, Cain and Abel at the local Free Presbyterian Church.
Stalls sold all manner of loyalist downmarket tat. Babies' bibs with "Dribbling for Glentoran" and "I'll be proud to wear the sash my father wore," were on display. Union flags and Scottish saltires hung beside King William tea towels, Northern soccer flags adorned with Ulster symbols and the slogan "Our wee country" were in demand. The green of the soccer shirt was in evidence alongside the ubiquitous electric blue of the Rangers top.
The mood lifted when the pulse of drums carried across the dripping countryside and the first banner fluttered into view. The gentlemen of the Ballinderry District stepped out proudly, bowler-hatted and with swords drawn. The blaze of collarettes and cuffs relieved the dreary wait while a crack of side drums in perfect unison split the air.
It was a sober affair compared to the boozy bash that is the Belfast parade a few miles to the west. Away from the shadows of the shipyard in the heartlands of rural Ulster they do things differently.
Up on the platform - a converted lorry - chairs were arranged and the lectern was covered in plastic to hold off the rain. Two reverend gentlemen chatted about the Bible reading. Cars pulled in to park on prime spots, suggesting that in this modern era the prayer service could be of the drive-in variety. Praise was led by the Roses Lane Ends Flute Band as the cloud finally parted and a hint of the blue skies of Ulster was revealed.