At the Tartan Bonnet

At the Tartan Bonnet next to the Smithy’s stall, a picture labelled monster is hanging on the wall. The photograph is fuzzy, looks like a bunch of tyres, held to a piece of deadwood by nails and string, or wires. The locals say that tourists are gullible, rich fools, that no sign has been noted by scientific tools. The view over the water is really rather good; another compensation is finest ale and food. But of a Friday evening, a face at the back door; she sups her twenty gallons and swims away once more.