The Depth To Delve... Deep

By Rote Writer

He slips through the hedgerow and in no time is seen sitting on the bench surprised by it all.

In the shadow of Old Sarum he sits. Salisbury is in sight. It slopes slowly from the old to the new. Now hungry and not too sure what to do about the rue he concludes…

‘I can live with the hunger for a bit… but the thirs

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rote Writer Publishing
• Release date: Sep 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781122912730

Rote Writer

Author: Tim Zeigdel, born Timmy McGuire February 14, 1963 was adopted at the age of eight when his name changed. Tim now adopts the penname Rote Writer. He started writing decades ago after a light inspired him to write his life story. Tim, since then, has amassed many memoirs written in story form & journals collected in: The Rote Writer Series.

Book preview

Preface

Some twenty years ago I started something. Something moved me to put my life in print. It felt like a possession. A damned life no longer wanted to be behind a dam so it began to break down the walls of years and tears gone by.

As the walls came tumbling down my memories moved me to write but I had nothing to write with or on. I had no pen, no paper... nothing but the will to write. So I bought a pen and paper; specifically a ballpoint pen and several loose-leaf booklets to hold what was about to unfold.

Then like a flood; my life, rife with strife, flowed fast and unfettered. The force of it overwhelmed me and my handwriting. My hand moved like writing in tongues. I cursed my cursive writing. It was illegible even to my eyes but it didn’t stop me from writing.

Within a week my booklets were full with what best can be described as a doctor’s dictum; scribbles slanting this way and that way.

Along the way I purchased a computer and transferred all of my handwriting onto it. It took some time but I managed.

I fell asleep each night writing in my mind the next ten pages. Days turned into weeks and months.

Each morning I awoke to write at first light. It was all I could do. After five or six months I had it all down.

I purchased a dot matrix printer. It pulled paper from a box. Each page punctured and perforated to the next as it rolled along knobs on a roller. Before I knew it I had an abridged account of my life... some one hundred thousand words.

When the time came to print, the printer printed a dash through every single letter, word and sentence. It left the first printout of my life as unreadable as my handwriting.

Left with a biting memory; I saved it on diskette hoping I could come up with a better computer and printer later on... then review, revise and rewrite.

When that time came my computer failed to recognize any saved files on my diskettes. At the time I was living north of sixty in a log cabin heated by a wood stove with my wolf/coyote cross.

Cross: I threw my five booklets, my computer printout and my supposedly saved files on diskettes into the fire.

I had to wait seven years before being inspired to write again. Thanks to a wet, wild and wilful woman with a sex drive on overdrive. I came alive.

Like a second coming I thrived as she tempted my creative juices with her demented desires. I sired in her desire poems and prose like Shakespeare’s sonnets. It was as if gusts of lust made it a must for me to write.

And write I did as if a light got turned on. And on and on I wrote by rote as the words came to me like musical notes.

The Book

Now what do you do with a book written by you... about you. You think about it a lot. You wonder if it’s worthy to be read by others. You wonder if you want others to read it.

Maybe if you change your name no one will know.

You will know.

You will know because you wrote it.

You wrote it so why not call yourself Rote.

Why not call yourself Rite it makes no difference in the logic—but rote is a word with dual meaning and any play on the word denotes it is written.

So Rote wrote the book without notes or use of a journal. He refers and defers to himself in first person; past, present and future tense. But soon the pretence with each sentence starting with ‘I did this’ and ‘I learned that’ wears on him. So he starts writing about himself in third person. Soon it reads like a story with ‘he does this’ and ‘he learns that’.

And through time he does learn, he learns to mine his memory to find his mind. He does it so well that he’s able to draw upon the dark recesses in his realm of recollections to feed what he needs to write.

By mining and minding his memory he manages to access his life—the long and short of it. He does it so often and so well that he learns to resource his realm by rote.

Once he has it down on paper he scripts it into a manuscript then lines up some publishing leads while surfing the internet.

After pitching a plethora of publishers Rote decides to pursue one of the largest in London.

He sends emails to a publishing house par with Pan with pulsating pitches of the book. No one in the endeavour escapes the electronic attack. From the chairman and president all the way down to the head of each and every denoted department. All their footprints are fed electronically with a palpable publishing ply.

His past is cast as an autobiographical work written in story form. He touts the trilogy as a three in one book proposal—pitching it above and beyond the norm.

He timely crosses it between The Lord Of The Rings and Harry Potter. Moreover he moves it as a modern day Oliver Twist coming into his own.

Sure enough a week or so later an email from the publisher arrives. The publisher requests the writer to send a copy of the manuscript or maybe just some sample chapters… come done, to his editor.

Imagine the elation to be so quickly contacted by the first publishing house ever emailed. And to do so without an agent astonishes him.

It leaves him firm with an affirmation.

After a few searches, the largest courier service in the world is chosen to mail the manuscript.

Soon it’s sent overseas to the address given. He follows the tracking number on the internet and knows it arrives safely in London.

Beyond that he doesn’t know.

He knows that’s two weeks ago...

That seems so long ago and without a response, nervousness creeps in... unsure thoughts leave him distraught. He feels like his soul has been sent somewhere over there—but where.

An entire life story is somewhere uncertain: the good, the bad and the ugly of it in someone else’s hands. To be read by a complete stranger; a sordid one, a sick one, a psycho. Imagine the mocking, the musing and the mulling over all of the memories, magnified there on paper for anyone to peruse.

Aaaarrrrgggghhhh!!!

The horror of it all; why has it been sent, for that matter why has it been written, why…

No amount of worry is going to bring the braved book back. So Rote sends some emails to the publisher and then tries calling.

Both mediums are met with no response.

He forgets that it’s the holidays and perhaps some people have the luxury of taking a few weeks off. Still it would be nice if they let its safe arrival be known. But no, no response with an assurance so desperately needed is seeded.

Now nearing a month with no response, Rote begins selling all his belongings bestowed or bought… everything: from furniture to the two televisions, a beloved bed, an entire c.d. collection, two stereos; all his clothing save for what’s worn is set to be sold.;

Meanwhile Rote seeks out local malls thinking they’ll be a good place to sell his stuff. He posts printouts of his household items for sale in some.

A similar ad sale though severely shortened is submitted to a major newspaper’s classified section. He leaves the newspaper office, descends down the escalator and attaches another printout on the door.

He leaves a few more here and there just to make sure. He doesn’t want any reason to come back it seems. All his moves make sure there’ll be no home to come back to with the hastened hurry. His mind is set on securing the manuscript’s safe arrival; anything else is trivial in his pursuit.

Soon calls come. Some callers come by and are seen leaving Rote’s apartment with pieces of his past leaving him feeling empty inside.

Rote leaves his apartment bare; save for a soft leather sofa he calls ‘whore,’ a white kitchen table given to him before he knows what’s in store, and a lavishly large split-leaf plant that he won’t sell.

He’s grown attached to the plant but don’t ask him to name it. He makes sure it sits in a tub of water to ensure its survival. He leaves the light shining on it. He knows the landlord will be by soon to collect the rent. By then the plant will be even bigger, barring any from entering without brushing by it.

He leaves the plant with a longing look. And save for friends, family, and a biological mother whom he meets not long before his first flight overseas; there’s really nothing left to come back to.

To London Heathrow he will go.

He knows his book is there somewhere...

On the Way

It’s early in the new year when an SUV, a sports utility vehicle, is driven to the airport and left in long-term parking.

Rote purchases a plane ticket.

It’s a one month return airfare.

Before departure he buys a couple of cartons of cigarettes. He’ll also need a supply of acetaminophen with codeine. Rote has an unfortunate addiction to a poor man’s painkiller. He takes it to alleviate a chronic pain in his left sinus and nasal passage. At times it throbs so sorely the whole left side of his face goes painfully numb.

He’s still bothered by the ever-present pain even after several surgeries in the past fail to remedy the rhino rue.

To manage the pain he avoids disdain by staggering shopping at each local pharmacy. Like any addict who knows a drug, they also know how to shop around in a way to draw little attention as possible to the purchase.

He bothers a lot of pharmacists.

One in particular seems sick of seeing someone come in repeatedly for ‘behind the counter’ two-hundred-pill caplet container of generic acetaminophen with codeine... mixed with fifteen milligrams of caffeine—a minuscule eight milligram count of codeine phosphate per pill… along with a three-hundred-milligram amount of acetaminophen.

The pharmacist says off the cuff,

This country is the only one in the world selling this type of acetaminophen with codeine needing no prescription.

The words stick and sort of plant a seed in a mind ready to find out for sure.

It’s not long after the writer arrives at the airport.

While waiting for the plane inside the airport, a tell-tale sign of the times transpires when a dodgy détente overseas begins. An extremely edgy person of distant descent tries to bump up an assigned seat at the counter. Other passengers waiting to board are aware of the person cautiously cajoling the airline attendant. Some within earshot are overheard saying,

Let’s hope he isn’t getting on the plane.

The surprising suspicion stems from September 11, 2001 where views of potential hijackers are heightened. That happened a few months ago. A safe feeling forms when the suspect leaves the waiting area without boarding the plane.

Rote’s relieved though still stressed. After all, in a very short time with reckless abandonment, all belongings including home and vehicle are parted with not a word in passing to friends or family.

He’s moved to fly overseas by whatever possesses him to write the book. The same possession now possesses him to pursue its purpose.

This isn’t the first time he flies to London. A welcome windfall of one thousand dollars allows him to fly over after finishing his manuscript, though not before sending it. It serves as an impetus to send it upon his return—to return is his hope.

His first flight overseas lasts only a week, but what a week. All he can think about is returning.

This time, the plane flight back over to London is with the same airline, to and from the same airport. Though now there’s no room to be bumped up from the bulk, determined while waiting to board.

Onboard a plan is pondered while squished in a seat, one of the many seats squeezed into the main frame of the plane.

The plane lands at London Heathrow. The airport is supported by a subway system they call ‘the tube’ or Underground. On the Underground, the writer heads to the very same safe haven had before. From there he’s off to the publishing house to find out about his manuscript. He will secure its safe arrival and then pursue its purpose.

Rote returns to the bed and breakfast. He descends downstairs with his two blue bags. Two tightly packed carry bags likened to gym bags, filled with what would-be a walking wardrobe of whatnots.

The separate and collective weight of the bags of rags weighs heavily. Like a balanced scale so laden, arms are left longer in length with every heave ho. So much so the present physical form fears the primeval possibilities.

He settles in and sees, like his first flight, he’s again alone in the downstairs dorm. He picks the same bottom bunk at the back. Unpacked, he knows the time is nigh to nose to the address that the chosen courier is caused to deliver the manuscript.

The following morning after a restless night of sleep, the writer reaches the publishing house like a reconnaissance rover. Rightly entering with indignation worthy of worrying even the most righteous.

Right then and right there he asks one of the two receptionists—both in black and both wearing a pentagram hanging from a necklace—to queue up the editor in question.

One calls on his behalf to see if he can be seen.

After that receptionist puts down the phone, she kind of looks at the rambler with reserve… he’s steaming with engines of war. He wants to know the whereabouts of his life in leaf. He will settle for no answer but that. Nothing else will make him leave.

The receptionist reviews the righteous indignation received from the riled rote writer and relays a message from the editor,

Leave your name and number and reason of inquiry.

That’s not good enough.

I need to know now if my manuscript arrived here safe and sound.

The taken aback in black receptionist calls upstairs and again relays the same message.

Not good enough. He needs a definite answer, an acknowledgement. Actual proof his manuscript arrives safely.

Again the reproached receptionist calls upstairs and this time after hanging up forwards a message to the worried writer,

The editor’s own assistant will be on the way downstairs.

It’s done with deliberation in an attempt to assuage the angst author.

Immediately when the door opens he’s taken aback by a blonde beauty in black. The alluring assistant enters the lobby of the publishing house. All the gumption gives way to the immediate presence of a person who proceeds to pamper him with assurances.

Yes your manuscript arrived safely… yes the editor not the publisher will read it… and yes we’ll contact you… if you’ll just leave a telephone number… and an email address.

He gives both leaving a whole lot of worry behind. Relieved, the rote writer leaves with an apt alias. It will be his name.

He’s a writer and he wrote his book by rote.

Rote Writer returns back to his bed and breakfast. Down the narrow stairs he goes, through the door bypassing a mirrored row of bunk beds. There’re eight in total. His is the last one on the left-hand side of the dorm.

He plumps down on the bottom tier of the double-decked dorm bed. He’s down in the basement of a building that by British standards is quite new...

Two hundred and twenty-five years old or so.

After a brief nap Rote resurrects from his relief that all is well.

While out for a walk he thinks ‘okay what now... why not see the things not seen on my last roundtrip to London, like London Tower and The Temple.’

He’s off to the Tower to pay the eleven pound price to enter; to be immediately taken with its towering history, and the way it’s built.

The Tower and Temple

Amidst a small group of tourists, the tour begins with the tour guide taking them across a moat. Back in time the moat must have been moored in muck and sludge, surely streaming from shit holes seen in each guards lookout.

He sees them strategically placed as potty parapets. Along with the seats are slits for sentinels to see through the Tower’s tremendously thick walls.

The moat now is a green well-manicured depression. With a drawbridge drawn from back in the day when Norman castles are the norm.

Rote passes through the Tower’s main gates.

The tour guide has such a loud and invasive voice that all any can do is stand as far back as possible; while sound waves and tone tell terrible stories of the Tower’s illustrious and all hallowed history.

Rote learns the Tower undergoes centuries of rebuilding and refurbishing under different royal guises. The initial instalment of the Tower is built after William the Conqueror comes and conquers England at the historical Battle of Hastings in 1066.

So interested in the history of the Tower he continues to learn the terrible woe the Tower wrought on all who fought England.

The worst are bound, beaten and brought like lions through Traitors Gate by the River Thames before it’s ever levied.

Like Sir William Wallace, the High Protector of Scotland… whose very own passion procession, proceeds through the Tower on towards his end in Smithfield Elms.

After being betrayed by his own brethren, Rote’s hero William Wallace, like in life and in the movie Braveheart; is brought back to London to be tried for high treason at Westminster Hall.

Found guilty; he’s laurelled, lauded and laughed at while shackled and shamed through the streets, stripped and strewn with strife to the Tower with little ease. Then through torrents of torments, he’s taken to a medieval meat-market in Smithfield Elms, an end in itself.

To be purified by pain, drawn and quartered, disembowelled and beheaded, body torn asunder. His head spiked on a pike donning London Bridge. His arms and legs sent to the Four Corners of Britain as a warning.

Some Scots are still mourning Mother Mary, Queen of Scots time served in its hold.

Nowadays the only thing held in the Tower besides the ravens are the crown jewels and at least they’re allowed out once a year for the opening of Parliament.

Not so for the ravens; their wings are clipped. Started by some superstitious reason somewhere: if ever the ravens should disappear from the Tower, then so too England.

What surprises Rote the most comes after the tour finishes. The tour guide; the so-called servant to the sovereign; the Yeoman of the guard called a Beefeater from the world’s oldest military core… stands in the doorway of the Tower’s chapel preventing anyone from passing.

There he stands stoutly; proud as a peacock putting out his hand like a beggar asking for donations… being in the queen’s court and all makes it somewhat inappropriate—indubitably so.

The next day the Temple is visited.

An ancient Knights Templars mount is built as a home base during the crusades that carries over to Jerusalem. The Crusaders leave without word to sword their discord with Saladin and the Saracens.

Like last time, Rote looks and sees the Temple is still under repairs due to a fire. This time he bypasses the obvious signs of renovations to go inside and feel the age-old aura of an era gone by.

Inside, Rote sees through the glass partitions forming the floor. Some of the Knights are apparently buried beneath the Temple.

Outside, he steps down the stairs and when no one is looking, climbs through the tiny passageway under the front entrance. Once underneath, Rote lights his lighter in the light of the lore in which the Knights lived.

Bookstores

Rote re-visits some of the places seen from his first flight overseas, like the British Library. He thinks from there why not visit all the bookstores, old and new, to get a feel for his forthcoming book.

Along the way, Rote Writer walks past Paternoster Row by St. Paul’s to Piccadilly and all possible passages in-between. He will return to the British Museum and its domed reading room.

He will browse bookstores old and antiquarian, new and novel, before going into one of Britain’s major bookstores if not the world. He will buy a copy of a writer’s guide with an outlined process for publishing a manuscript.

He’s intrigued to see some remarks made in the front matter. The author gives acknowledgement and thanks to the very editor presently perusing Rote’s manuscript.

Rote magically meets the editor’s wife, sister or someone posing as a very close friend in one of the more obscure occult bookstores. Add seeing the editor’s name in another book, with the friendly encounter just had; it all adds up and may help Rote’s hand in hurrying the preliminary publishing processes.

How he comes to these synchronicities does remain a mystery in so much as the possibility of pushing so hard with the process… he may have aligned himself with an allowance of all the available avenues to appear—like making luck.

Near to a week with no response, the proud pushing peddler sends emails to his hopeful editor. He mentions something about all the people he meets and the book purchased. With the motive of moving things forward a little faster.

Rote finally does get a reply though not exactly the one he’s hoping for—a response nonetheless.

The gist of the editor’s response is overall positive. He lets Rote know how much he admires his persistence and dogged determination. After all, there’re hundreds of manuscripts delivered daily, all backed by agents pursuant to the push. While thousands upon thousands of manuscripts sit on their shelves collecting dust, never making it past the pitch.

Here’s Rote early in the new year... after beginning the process just before Christmas, with no agent and an entire publishing house away on holiday—now with a manuscript read with a response. A response duly registered by Rote’s rigorous and relentless pursuit of his pet project.

Unfortunately they can’t find a home for his life story. It’s far too personal and eclectic for the market they cater too. To that he accepts and is thankful for the candour coming through the correspondence. No more is needed, seeded or said.

Rote learns long ago not to linger on what’s lost, what’s left behind. Thankfully his mind helps him lose track of what he’s trying to find. He’s long since forgotten what possesses him to write the book in the first place and now whatever possesses him to pursue its purpose has met its end.

Like reading a book he sees no point holding onto it after it’s been read, unless it’s worthy to read again or he’s written it. For now he will cherish what it brought and then leave it for naught.

He will leave all thought of it behind though the original manuscript, along with two disks are buried at the bottom of one of his two blue bags.

Crystals

The next day begins with a walkabout; around and up and down the seven streets serving like spokes on a wheel around the axis of the Seven Dials roundabout. Lured like a fish; he drops in and out of every shop shining something of London… wondering and wandering away the day.

Rote walks into a metaphysical crystal shop cascading in crystals at every corner. Everywhere he looks he sees them. Some crystallize from the ceiling like mystical mobiles. The rainbow reflections mesmerize him momentarily as the sun shines right through the prisms.

So seen he sees, either by hallucination or by some kind of astral projection—a written image in a holograph form.

There... freely floating in the medium, suspended in space, the name of a contact; the contact for live-in work positions in the U.K.

He has this contact carefully on his person prior to departure abroad. When it all of a sudden superimposes its image in the ether mysteriously in that metaphysical shop—he knows his course. No matter how it manifests.

He needs to let go lest he long more for his initial pursuit and push onwards into a subsistent search. The magic of it all seems so overwhelming.

He knows how some things start.

Some journeys start with serendipity, all he can hope for is this one to come without calamity. Rote has no doubt in his mind he will find both though not before noticing all the littler landmarks London is lorded for.

So many things seen are ever English, like the visible red Double Decker busses. He notices the linkmen like lamps lining the lanes of lore. Also the rows of pikes, gold tipped sable sabres moored as mitred pale posts, standing like short sentinels along London’s sidewalks.

He walks by many red telephone booths before entering one to place a call.

Upon calling the contact for live-in positions, Rote finds along with his timing, his patience is tried by the glut of the pound-coin consuming renowned red ringers register. After failing to connect to the free service for would-be travellers, the traveller leaves the telephone booth shaken and stirred but not deterred. He’s determined to call again later from his bed and breakfast.

Later from his short-lived stead, he successfully connects with the contact and is given two places to possibly work. He’s prompted by a choice anywhere in mainland Great Britain... from Lands End to John o’ Groats for a live-in position. Somewhere in Scotland is supposed, hopefully in the Highlands or Islands.

Scotland has held his heart ever since seeing the epic film Braveheart. And with his book behind him it will become his reason to be, his raison d’être.

He’s surprised and happy to be given two possible places in Scotland to choose from. He hangs up the telephone already picking in his mind the one to call first.

Unfortunately, his undertaking is undermined by a simple stated stipulation that; the contact ominously makes a point of fact over the telephone that; a person must have a valid work permit that can only be acquired from the country of origin.

That’s that, but before coming over the rover knows even then he can’t meet the criteria and surmises. Like the country he comes from, there’re ways to find work under the table or otherwise.

The potential live-in position passed over the telephone at least presents a possibility well worth pursuing. It’s legit. He decides not to let the job finder person or the people he presumes to be working for know he’s without a work permit. And if they ask him; well, he will wing it.

The next day good-byes are said to the people positioned at the bed and breakfast… befriended during the bypassed week and while on the first flight over.

From the owner and his daughter to the manager... all the way down to the two invitingly beautiful women who do housekeeping. They must have come from some exotic foreign land; erotic thoughts come and go every time he sees them together.

Rote, while relaying his endeavours lights up the owner and the manager with his manuscript’s manifested madness. They wish him well with his emerging enterprise and entertain the thought of having a blue plaque placed on the outside wall of the building. Like The Royal Heritage Preservation Society does, denoting his stay come the day he becomes known as a writer.

In Scotland

To be sitting on board a train towards Glasgow via Edinburgh from London is something. Rote Writer allows imagination to move his train of thought northwards through England bypassing many points of interest along the way.

The sway of history holds him.

And now firsthand in the land of loving lore finds him somewhat sore. The train travels far too fast past the ancient line of defence, still standing as a landmark bulwark between Scotland and England; Hadrian’s Wall.

Rote learns later the wall is built in the early part of the second century by the Romans during Emperor Hadrian’s rule. The Romans rule the civilized world, anything beyond the old roman rampart is considered wild.

It stretches straight across what is and still stands as the first formal split between the Scots and the English.

The wall is built to keep the Picts from pouncing, and maybe even for posterity to prove how far the Empire reaches. Upon learning this, Rote finds it hard to believe the Romans would stop halfway to the Highlands rather than an indefinite span.

Had it not been for the Picts, who prove to be as proud as the Scots and Irish, the Romans would never have settled short of it all.

The train stops for a brief moment. Rote relinquishes his retrospective requiem then right as rain begins again when the train moves northwards along the North Sea.

He knows it’s known as the Norse Sea. Its mists and winds hound the eastern shores of England and Scotland. And many a fjord found in Scandinavia.

Rote’s lost in thought. He sees the sea as the train bypasses many shires beholden by byres along the way. The train passes through the border town of Berwick on Tweed in Scotland, but belonging to England.

Evermore after King Edward I, the Plantagenet; with tragic consequences, heels the strategic sight to his might in a medieval massacre en-masse. As Rote learns, ‘Long Shanks’ as the Scots see him, forces fealty while the people putrefy. He hones all in homage to sign his Ragman Roll; a real record of who’s who in 1296.

Rote can see why it’s once southern Scotland’s strongest seaport. The hung hamlet hovers over the North Sea like a proud steed above the River Tweed.

Rote leaves those thoughts behind. He hears a fellow passenger say something. He seems a little on the mentally ill side, surmised by seeing him try to woo a woman. She’s withholding any response in fear of further jabbering.

The fellow throws out like a mating call,

Stirling Castle is the best and most impressive in all the land.

Where this wisp of information wells from matters not, Rote perceives it as a possible place to visit. After all, it’s one of the many Scottish locations depicted in the movie Braveheart—his raison d’être.

Sometime later, the train pulls into Edinburgh Scotland. It’s situated on the eastern part of the Firth of Forth. The mouth of the River Forth is the firth that runs into the inlet of the North Sea. It’s the first time he’s ever heard of the word firth. He figures many Scottish words have Scandinavian roots.

The train has a brief stop in Scotland’s capital. Rote’s immediately impressed, wowed by the medieval nature of the historic city and all its architecture. It’s only seen briefly from a disadvantaged view though. He leaves nonetheless with a lasting impression.

The train trolls out leaving the obscurity of the station behind allowing another momentary glimpse of one of Europe’s most medieval cities to come back to.

Rote’s onboard the train, spotting scenes and sights straight through the heart of Scotland. Scotland is split by the River Forth in the east and the River Clyde in the west. Somewhere in the centre is Stirling.

The train travels into Glasgow. It’s much larger than Edinburgh. Glasgow lacks all the old architecture and lure of Edinburgh. Rote will learn it has a few of its own medieval monuments, like St. Mungo’s Cathedral.

It’s where Scotland’s sainted Columba, an Irish monk in the same league as St. Patrick, meets St. Mungo... who endears Glasgow in Gaelic as his Glascu, or dear place.

Not so far from there, a dormant five-hundred-year-old dwelling rests, titled Provand’s Lordship. Rote learns it stands as the oldest remaining house while St. Mungo’s Cathedral rests as the oldest building in Glasgow.

He’s sold on the idea to see the sights, but not today. He just wants to get to the Inn, with wishes for work just north of Glasgow.

On the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond!

He will go singing this song, sung with a chorus strung. He will hear this chime in time when a band comes by the bar in the Inn he’s on the way to... sing it,

… O yells tak’ the high road and I’ll tak’ the low road an’ I’ll be in Scotland afore ye; but me and my true love will never meet again, on the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond….

It’s a lovely song and when he hears it for the first time sung, the singer comes by the bar to talk to Rote. She tells him of Scotland’s Islands and Highlands. She fills him in on all the lore of the land and the lure of the lochs like Loch Lomond.

Rote learns a lake is a loch in Scotland. He’s on his way to one just north of Glasgow, like the cock o’ north. And like the loch he’s headed to… all lochs are filled with many lures in lore like the largest Loch Ness. Its moniker monster, Nessie, is named after Nessa, a Pict princess.

He will put lure and lore aside for now.

Before departing England—Rote by telephone, contacts one of the owner’s of the family run Scottish Inn back at the bed and breakfast in London.

On the telephone they give him directions on how to get to their Inn off the beaten track along the West Highland Way. He guesses the trail starts somewhere around Glasgow. It bypasses their Inn in Balmaha, and then travels through the Highlands of Scotland to Fort William.

With directions in mind and out of the train station, a moving bus is