And at the same time – but not in the sense you might think I mean – and hundreds of miles away, on the North West Coast, and hundreds of years in the past - but not in the sense you might also think I mean (because, see if you turn around quickly and slip through that wee gap in the air, you'll likely find yourself there) - in Glen Glum, the Cradle of Chivalry, itself, Blind Harry and the Laddies stood stock still in the heady atmosphere, the glade, in the gloaming, held the weight of it's history like a plaid; "youse laddies look like a Parliament o Indris, but ye'll nae ken whit a Indri is, wull ye, Gibby Lonnegan?" – and Gibby turned scarlet and stared at his feet, as if he expected the answer to creep oot frae between his taes: "naw Harry, ah divnae, but!" and Harry smiled at the laddie's admission: "bit ye, wee Padraig Macaroon, descendant o Kwasi, ane o the maist illustrious Lairds o The Isles, Ah'll warrant ye'll ken weel enuff, um a richt, then?" – and the wee black boy blushed, as he always did when his name and the great Kwasi’s were used in the same sentence: "it's a muckle Lemur, Harry, it's oan wur Coat o Airms, intit?" and Harry nodded: "aye, Padraig, that it is, but dinnae ye ither loons worry that no kennin a answer wull mean sumdy else supersedes ye an gets tae jump the queue an pull at The Lochlann's battle axe afore ye, it's nae goannie work like thon; come awa, ye've aw worked like Picts this forenoon, oo'll hie awa tae a wee hashery ah ken doon in the Glen, they hae guid food an their ain braw Malt an oo'll fortify oorsels fer the Maist Important Task o Yer Lives: findin oot jist which ane o ye's goannie be able tae pull oot the Battle Axe an be King o Scoatland!