Chapter 4: The Last Minstrel

     "Whew, that was some hike," I huff, dropping my pack by the door of the first place I come to after a two-mile trek into Eskdalemuir.

"Opening at ten mate," calls the barkeep, a portly balding fellow carrying a tray of clean thistle glasses from the kitchen at the Old School Cafe. "But ya look like yer could use a pick-me-up."

"Only if it's no trouble," I bargain, bellying up to the bar. "What's your local Scotch?"

"No such thing lad, but if it's a malt you want, that be The Borders." 

"Then make it a boilermaker with thisReiver Red," I nod toward the labeled tap.

     My escape from Samye Ling was in a nick of time. As my goddess nun made a beeline for the front door to consult with the agitated monk, I beat a hasty retreat out a side exit and ran for the guesthouse, stuffing toiletries bag and raincoat into an already overloaded backpack. 

     I was hoisting it on and about to exit the compound when I remembered the fancy umbrella. Chancing detection, I slipped back into the monastery to the first open room where I spied another object of my desire, a sash from her maroon kashaya. Slipping them both under the cinch cords, I hobbled with the heavy bag as fast as I could out into a foggy dawn.

     At first I was barely able to see the narrow track of the B709, but soon enough both mist and man were burnt by the morning sun breaking over the ben. Despite a pandemic's worth of planning, I had somehow neglected to train for hiking with a heavy pack, so I was short of breath and dripping with sweat by the time I arrived in the sleepy village. 

     "A wee hauf and a hauf to start or end your day," the merry barman calls, sliding over a pint and a lowball as a wrinkled old man in black and white kilties, plaid knickerbockers, red polo, and tweed bunnet todders in and lodges himself onto the end stool.

"And another for our young friend," I respond, nodding his way and raising my thistle pint.

Without a glance, the old fellow leans into the mahagony slab and breaks into a mumbling verse:

Hearken, Ladye, to the tale,

How thy sires won fair Eskdale.

Earl Morton was lord of that valley fair;

The Beattisons were his vassals there.

The Earl was gentle, and mild of mood;

The vassals vere warlike, and fierce, and rude;

High of heart, and haughty of word,

Little they reck'd of a tame liege lord.

The Earl into fair Eskdale came,

Homage and seignory to claim:

Of Gilbert the Galliard a heriot he sought,

Saying, "Give thy best steed, as a vassal ought."

"Dear to me is my bonny white steed,

Oft has he help d me at pinch of need;

Lord and Earl though thou be, I trow

I can rein Bucksfoot better than thou."

Word on word gave fuel to fire,

Till so highly blazed the Beattison's ire,

But that the Earl the flight had ta'en,

The vassals there their lord had slain.

Sore he plied both whip and spur,

As he urged his steed through Eskdale muir;

And it fell down a weary weight,

Just on the threshold of Branksome gate. (1)

     "Who was that man?" I call into the kitchen after the old guy downs his shot and beer to my applause and then stumbles out.

"Fancies his self Sir Walter Scott, I suppose, but that's just crazy Rolland Beattison from up to Wut-Carrick."

1) From Scott, Walter. The Lay Of The Last Minstrel. 1805.