COUNTRY PARADE:THERE IS a certain shame in being lost among unfamiliar names in one's own county, so near to home.
But amid that "basket of eggs" landscape that is the drumlins of Down, that is precisely what happened.
Listullycurran, Skeogh, Aughnaskeagh and Benraw are names that, at a stroke, broadened this reporter's Orange lexicon. They are home to Purple Hearts, True Defenders, Rising Sons and, according to one banner, the Secret Source of England's Greatness.
They marched, drummed and whistled by the hundred down the snaking road into the otherwise peaceful and pristine village of Dromara. At a distance only their colours were visible above the bushes.
Led by a contemporary King Billy upon a substantial, if nervous white charger, they crossed a youthful River Lagan to the crack of the drum and the strangled cat wail of Scottish pipes. Swords drawn and meticulously suited, the local men escorted their high profile guest.
Robert Saulters, Grand Master of the Grand Orange Lodge of Ireland, beamed uncontrollably and waved a gloved hand, left then right. Onlookers, mostly women, waved back despite being laden with baby buggies and great Tupperware boxes of sandwiches. Religious and Civil Liberty for all, the lodges proclaimed. But in Dromara, the women know their place.
It was a world away from the beer and boorishness that attends the Belfast demonstration, just a short drive away.
"This is the country Orange," a local explained with an air of unspoken superiority. "It's different." Different it certainly was. There were swirling pipe bands, all sporrans to the side, and magnificent swaggering kilts.
Brass bands, in step to a man, struck up jolly numbers - movie themes and the tune to Match of the Day among them. Oompah, oompah, oompah! Lambeg players three abreast, their collarettes placed proudly on the front of their massive drums, thrashed out traditional Ulster warnings. Loud enough to trigger a tectonic disaster, their mighty thumps startled babies and rattled windows.
Reddened with effort, some of them called younger marchers forward to help with the weight.
It is strange to note how a sober suit and a bowler hat ages a young fellow. For all their piercings, tattoos and hair gel, they looked like their granddads - their young rebellion forgotten for a day.
It was all pleasing to God. Lodge banners extolled the divine righteousness of British monarchy, the industry of the Ulster worker, the selflessness of her soldiers and the certainty of the Old Testament. Even the broken clock on the church tower, fixed on 1.42, was right at one point.
A ladies' lodge tottered past. With heels, hats and handbags, they resembled a troupe of Queen Mother lookalikes.
Young Orange members ambled along. One, no more than six and coping with a melting ice lolly, wore a simple sash which proclaimed that they were "The Hope of Ulster".
The air at the field was a mingle of smells. Smoke from burger stalls wafted with the brackish tang of vinegar, diesel fumes, mown grass and reeking silage.
The Rev GN Sproule, the distinguished if elderly Grand Chaplain of Down, took to the microphone on the platform a little uneasily.
"I can assure you the only thing I've drunk today is hot tea," he joked with the small knot of faithful which stands around for prayers and proclamations. The majority, meanwhile, opted for the picnic, the beer tin and the many stalls offering all manner of souvenir and tat.
Rev Sproule thanked God. Her Most Gracious Majesty was assured of unbending loyalty and doubts were expressed about the suitability for office of unnamed members of the Stormont Executive.
Police officers stood around in pairs, largely unneeded. A couple of teenage girls with bare midriffs and too much make-up had their bottles of orange alcopop confiscated.
It was to be the only tame surrender of the day.