Messin' Aboot Wi Pano's

Author's Disclaimer
Firstly, in the writing of this story no bacon bridie went uneaten, no chippie was in any way damaged – although some should be shut down on health and safety concerns for their provision of deep fried Mars bars – neither did any wee dram go unconsumed. Secondly, some may be offended by my poking fun at religious beliefs. This, for me is not an issue. If there are those who are offended they very definitely have a problem, and that is their problem not mine. Whatever, if I cause offence I cause offence. So, I am going to have a wee poke anyway – so there. If yer easily offended read no further - Ye hae bin warned...

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A Pilgrim’s Pub-crawl:
A Wee Stravaig Through the Caledonian Crisis.

Introduction
In which the author falls asleep, has a peculiar dream, and we meet our hapless hero
It was one of those nights, you know the ones, dreich and with a haar that infiltrates yer bones like guilt into a good Presbyterian. I had spent the best part of the day and the evening in the Queen's Ankles, a modest establishment of low character and strong ale. My excuse was that I was there working, or at least pretending to, on a novel. So, it was late in the evening with my belly full of a steak and ale pie, my head full of strong ale, and a spirit overflowing with vague regrets that I collapsed onto my sofa and fell into a most peculiar sleep. I had a dream. There I was stood at the edge of a mist enshrouded moor watching this bloke staggering under the weight of a huge tartan rucksack filled with the gods only knew what – maybe unopened letters, unpaid speeding fines, even a guilt ridden conscience. Much later I would discover that his name was Daftie McChristian. I would also learn that he stayed in the weary wee town of Slothburgh – one of those strange wee towns that only exist for people to have 'come from'. One of those towns where hope and ambition go to die, and the residents have theological discussions out of boredom.

Now Daftie was no ordinary man. He suffered from a terrible affliction, a chronic condition, that was locally known own as The Dread. This condition is a soul-crushing blend of spiritual yearning, inadequate education, and a mild lactose intolerance. One morning in the chippie minding his own business and having his breakfast, a bacon bridie, he noticed a tatty wee pamphlet behind the menu. Picking it up he noted the title:

The Wee Guide tae the Holy Loch
(Third Edition – Slightly Moist)

Opening the cover the title page had what could be seen as something of a subtitle:
'Come ye burdened, ye broken, ye blootered – find rest for yer soul, or at least a decent dram.'
As Daftie read it, with a furrowed brow and his lips moving, something stirred deep inside him. A weird and powerful conviction, like Sir Galahad must have had before seeking the Holy Grail, took root in him. Maybe in his heart, but possibly in his bowels. He would leave Slothburgh, throw off all burdens, and go in search of this mystical Holy Loch. It was here that he thought he would discover the promised secret of peace, purpose, and probably a half decent dram.
When he told his neighbours they, of course, decided that he had completely lost the plot. Tam The Atheist, sipping his Irn-Bru with practised contempt muttered
'Ye daft bawbag.'
Big Agnes Apathy, not looking up from her crossword (not a cryptic one naturally), scoffed
'Holy Loch? Ye'd be better off lookin' for Narnia in Falkirk.'

Daftie refused to listen. His mind – or what passes for his mind – was made up. Clutching the pamphlet in one hand, and a half-eaten Jammie Dodger in the other, he slung his ridiculously large rucksack over his shoulders and took his first staggering steps out of Slothburgh.

Thus began his journey – one of peril, pubs, bad theology, and unexpected revelations. Whether Daftie finds the Holy Loch, and its secrets, or simply his way home again, well... if you want to know ye'll have to read on and discover.

Just take care on the moss, and bring a hip flask – ye may need it.