It was a "damp squib" affair. Indeed, as though to underline that, it rained on the parade. From early it was clear numbers would be low. At 9.10 a.m.
Portadown was deserted, the only person around seeming to be a young backpacker sitting on the square opposite the war memorial, with its plaintive poppy wreaths.
On Carleton Street there was one TV cameraman and two men at the entrance to the Orange Hall. For a time it seemed all that was gathering were the dark clouds above.
But slowly the Orangemen began to arrive, some women too, as well as youths from the two accordion bands, more media, and a very lively black-haired terrier pup with no loyalty at all.
At 10.10 a.m. the groundhog ceremonies began with district deputy master David Burrows speaking urbi et orbi from an upstairs window to the 600 below. Portadown District was still there, he confirmed, and would march as they had done for almost 200 years.
And he remembered Harold Gracey, their district master, who died earlier this year. There was a prayer, and from the wings district secretary Nigel Dawson emerged to read the determination from "an unelected quango" - the Parades Commission - which once again had decided the limits of their annual ambition, this time for July 4th, 2004, Independence Day.
They were to march in twos he said. Other years it has been threes, even more before that in the glorious 90s.
People on the sidewalks were thin in number, if not girth, and watched the parade go past without sound. None of the cheering, none of the applause of yesteryear. Even at the Corcrain loyalist estate, the response of the small crowd was muted, just a smattering of applause here and there from people overshadowed by piled-up preparations for the eve of Twelfth bonfire.
There was a perspex barrier alongside St John's Catholic church, very little overt security present, and a small Catholic crowd including Armagh "giants not men" wearing orange GAA jerseys. It was blocked from view by a corrugated metal fence.
Across the meadows was the Church of the Ascension, with its sturdy grey steeple and two damp Union Jacks hanging limp in the humid air.
A herd of yearling Fresian calves ran across to watch the parade through a hole in a hedge. They seemed the most excited observers of the day.
The service began at 11.30 a.m. led by Rev John Pickering and, as they sang O God, our rock in ages past, the heavens opened, heightening a sense of comfort that seems to accompany ritual in that old building.
Rev Pickering wondered what St Paul would make of it had he been in Drumcree yesterday. The good rector cannot be the only one. He went on to recall Paul's visit to Athens. Some of us wondered what Paul would make of it were he in Athens yesterday - probably wish he was in Lisbon, we thought.
Later at the barricade the familiar ritual took its closing course. A letter of protest was handed to a silent policeman. Nigel Dawson dismissed the Parades Commission through his nose. David Burrows underlined how they would be there every Sunday until hell freezes over or they get down the Garvaghy Road, whichever comes first. There was a minute's silence for "Harold" growing greater in stature by the day. And then dispersal, aided by rain. Till next year.
