“My house, my rules!” he’d roared.

My legs complain of the extended sitting of the journey, the chill no one else seems to acknowledge, the vibrations of the traffic.

Deposited among chaos and unconcern by a cabbie who’d taken money I’d put aside for a meal, I reappraise father’s “tyranny”.

Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration.