On the ground: Hillsborough should really be somewhere in the Cotswolds. That's where it belongs with its understated Georgian elegance, its royal residence and its neat streets lined with quaint shops.
Queen Elizabeth's castle sits on the summit of a hill resplendent in sandstone - or something that looks like it. A compact and bijou home-from-home for the world's richest woman. A bit of a come-down from Buckingham Palace. However, probably by dint of some divine cock-up, this example of architectural cuteness nestles not among the rolling hills of mother England but the outskirts of Lisburn, not far from what was the Maze prison.
The village's misfortune was compounded these past two days with the incessant idling engines of TV satellite vans, the electronic warble of mobile phones and a security presence more akin to Drumcree than this rural idyll.
There was a frisson of excitement and more than a hint of hopeful anticipation as wave after wave of motorcades swept up to the castle on Monday.
How temporary.
Deal-making can be a dull and protracted affair, and so it proved. No amount of forced jollity from David Trimble, as he insisted there was little more to be gained from the talks than a declaration from the IRA that it would stop being the IRA, could lift the drudgery.
No amount of spin from the Shinners and the counter-spin from the SDLP could even reach the threshold of entertainment - even among political junkies.
No amount of insider-whispering from Mr Blair's official gossips could spark a notion of intrigue, a hint of deft political moves or clever diplomatic footwork.
Not even the occasional pensive dander among the perfect lawns by Adams and Co as they pondered the future, with Sky news peeping over the gates, could turn the main news story of the day into, well, the main news story of the day.
What killed things wasn't the windchill factor, which was at its most severe of the winter, or the glacial speed of "developments" or the mind-numbing effect of standing in a car-park for 13 hours.
What kept Mr Blair's Hand of History firmly stuffed deep in its pocket was the racing certainty that the coveted Pancake Tuesday Agreement was not to be. And so the Lenten season began with little more than "shared understanding" among the parties and commitments to return some other time.
The media circus dispersed to warm its bones elsewhere, Mr Blair flew off to consider an invasion or something and the police went home to claim their overtime.
This left the passive people of Hillsborough free to do what they do best - pretend they don't really live in Northern Ireland.