Chapter 8: Hard Heads

      "Trespassing Americans," grumbles an old man striding toward me in the grey pre-dawn and clasping a golf club over his right shoulder.

"Hold on Mr. Beattison," I bargain, recognizing the old minstrel from the Eskdalemuir inn. "I'm a Bateson."

"Fore!" he screams, swinging the antique wooden driver.

     I'd stumbled down the hill after the beast fell for my decoy and tore up the burgundy sash. There was a streak of silver on the eastern horizon as I halted at the Esk, and suddenly I knew it was no bad trip I'd been on. Instead, I'd slept off the mushrooms all afternoon and evening and was now greeting the dawn of my last full day in Scotland.

     Scoping out the shallows in the thin light, I had waded across with growing thirst, resisting the temptation to slurp from the pastoral waters probably teeming with E. coli or worse. I was heading back to the B709 to continue on to Langholm when spotted by Rolland Beattison.

     The old bugger marched over and swung that wooden driver for my head, but I saw it coming and whipped out my Swaine-Adeney, holding it up in front of me with both hands. The shaft of the antique golf club snapped around the umbrella handle, propelling the heavy knob of back around and into his forehead.

     "Jeez Rolland, are you okay?" I worry, helping him up.

"A taste of me own medicine, eh?" he groans, standing shakily and feeling his forehead.

"Guess my wood's harder than your wood," I  offer. "Or at least it's newer."

"Well we at Wat-Carrick never liked youse wandering Bateys," he explains. "What ye doing snooping round anyways?"

"I was chased down that hill by what looked a wooley mammoth."

"Only me highland bull," he guffaws, holding onto my shoulder as we hobble toward the road.  "And that hill-fort is Castle O'er where our sinncearan held off the Romans."