The Rake Magazine

Year: 2006

  • Strine Wine

    When I was home in England over Christmas, I caught a liver specialist from (appropriately enough) Liverpool being interviewed on the wireless. He was talking about cirrhosis, that very nasty condition in which the liver turns into little yellowish granules, and eventually packs up completely. When he began in the liver business years ago, he said, this was the disease of older men, brought on by a lifetime’s application to the bottle. Nowadays, though, he frequently found the beds in his ward filled with young women who had managed to achieve the same effect in an altogether shorter time. The young people of Liverpool, he averred, do drink an awful lot these days.

    Archaeological evidence suggests this phenomenon is not confined to Liverpool. As the spring thaw sets in each year along fraternity row in Minneapolis, bottles emerge to view in the snow banks on the boulevard, mostly bearing the names of undistinguished vintages or popular brands of beer. As the melt proceeds, they dribble down into the gutter, where they pose a hazard to cyclists (credite experto … ). The historian Edward Gibbon, writing about Oxford during the eighteenth century, felt that the deep potations of those who were supposed to be teaching him Latin and Greek excused “the brisk intemperance of youth.” I can forgive a good deal of brisk intemperance, but a puncture in my front tire makes me livid (a very nasty condition in which the face goes pale purple with rage).

    In Gibbon’s time, the British government tried to use stiff excise duties to control alcoholic intake. Avoiding these penalties became something like the national sport. The stakes were high; you could get hanged for smuggling, but evading the exciseman appealed to a certain spirit of adventure, as those fortunate enough to have had J. Meade Falkner’s novel Moonfleet read to them in their youth can certainly agree.

    The most unlikely recruit to the government team must surely have been Rabbie Burns, the Scots national poet. This is a man who wrote lines like “Freedom an’ whisky gang thegither,” as well as one of the world’s great drinking songs, “O Willie Brew’d a Peck o’ Maut” (chorus: “We are na fou, we’re nae that fou, but just a drapee in our e’e … ”). Yet he spent the last half-dozen years of his short life (he died of heart trouble, not of drink) chasing down smugglers and illicit distillers in the deep valleys of Dumfries and Galloway. Not that it seems to have cramped his style. One of his wildest poems is a rant about the party put on in a town where the local exciseman had been carried away to hell by the devil; Burns is said to have composed it while waiting on the beach for reinforcements so he could search a smuggling ship that had gone aground on the treacherous sands of the Solway Firth.

    With a reputation like that, it is scarcely surprising that “Bobbie Burns” should have given his name to a vineyard in the Australian State of Victoria (the bottom right-hand corner) founded by a Scots gold prospector called John Campbell. Campbells Wines produced their first vintage in 1870, and their Bobbie Burns Shiraz 1998 (available hereabouts for less than $17) is a worthy scion. The Shiraz grape, widely grown in Australia, is the same as that which the French call the “Syrah,” the variety from which most of the great red wines of the Rhône Valley are made. It has, alas, no historical connection with the Persian city of the same name, home of the Persian national poet Hafiz, a bard altogether more refined than “owr Rabbie,” and one who wrote about wine, it seems, merely as a metaphor for spiritual experience.

    There is nothing immaterial about this good-hearted red. It has little nose, but plenty of fruit and alcohol, as one might expect from grapes which have reached ripeness over a long, warm autumn. The tannins are more spicy than redolent of the oak barrels in which the wine matured. This would make a cheering companion to any red meat, a pork roast say, or even haggis, the great chieftain of the pudding race. Come to that, the tannins suggest it has time still on its side. Buy some now to drink later. But best make sure you like it; sample some now as well, and call to mind Paul’s advice to Timothy: “Drink no longer water, but use a little wine for thy stomach’s sake.” A little wine—no poet (or hepatologist) could have said it better.

  • The Gow Choy Express

    The average home cook, it turns out, has only about a dozen rotating specialties in his or her repertoire. Pot roast, meatloaf, spaghetti, you know the drill. This type of déjà vu dining becomes especially depressing in March. While the lucky few fly away to warmer climes and snack on fresh tropical fruit, the rest of us feel sentenced to a state of not-yet-spring, in which we’d rather eat a travel brochure than another baked chicken. Seeking out the fresh and new may seem daunting, especially as you lie on the sofa with the television clicker on your belly, but there is hope—inside the Asian markets scattered throughout the Twin Cities.

    Asian markets offer glimpses into other worlds, right when you need them most. For those who shop at them regularly, this is hardly a revelation. But if you are like I once was (hugely aware of my tendency to stammer when I don’t know how to ask for something, and frightened to death of being offensive), just stepping through their doors can seem daunting. It turns out that all it takes to get over yourself is one trip to Shuang Hur or Duc Loi. You’ll be mesmerized by the tightly packed shelves of interesting ingredients and overwhelmed by the hospitality of the people who work there. In an effort to reveal the delights of these and other local Asian markets, I undertook a whirlwind shopping spree with friend and food expert JD Fratzke, the head chef at Muffaletta Café in St. Paul.

    One of the best things about Asian markets is the availability of fresh and unusual herbs and leaves. You’ll find, likely near the vegetables, generous bunches of herbs that are less expensive than the plastic-boxed sprigs at the average grocery. Some of the most common are garlic chives (gow choy), which have a grassy top and pungent smell, and sweet Asian basil (bai horapha), with its slight anise flavor. More exciting are the leaves—la-lot leaves, kaffir lime leaves, and sword-shaped pandan leaves—which can be used to wrap fish and meats while they steam.

    Oddly shaped roots are also plentiful. JD proved once and for all that beauty lies within when he snapped open a squat, dirt-covered water chestnut root to reveal its perfectly creamy white inner flesh. The basics include taro root, a starchy tuber that acts like a potato but with a slightly sweeter flavor; spicy galangal, a member of the ginger family commonly used in Thai cuisine; and jicama, tumeric, ginger, and lotus roots. A tip from JD: If you’re looking for bamboo shoots, go easy on yourself and buy the ones that have already been peeled and rinsed.

    Enthralling, but confusing, are the many varieties of leafy greens. Of course there’ll be bok choy on hand, but why not try gai larn (Chinese broccoli) instead? The stems make a vibrant side dish, chopped and flash boiled in salted water. Choy sum is a flowering cabbage often crowned with little yellow buds; both the leaves and stems can be thrown into a stir-fry. Water spinach (kangkung), with its long, narrow leaves, is best wilted in olive oil with a bit of garlic.

    The meat cases in Asian markets are packed with the usual cuts of beef and pork, alongside more unusual offerings like pigs’ feet and snouts, beef stomachs, and what JD calls the Asian movie snack: chicken feet. Fish can be found frozen and whole or sliced and marinated in a traditional spicy chili paste. Many markets offer cooked meats like HOFO duck (head on feet on), or barbecued hog. Both make for very easy meals.

    One of the best treasure troves of all is the frozen foods section. Surprises from the far reaches of the globe can be found behind the glass doors: bags of pond snails, packets of air-dried fish, cases of quail eggs, boxes of Chinese sausages. Great deals can be had on bags of frozen mussels, scallops, shrimp, and other seafood. JD laughed aloud when he saw the same brand of frozen shrimp sold to his restaurant sitting on a shelf for markedly less. The big winner for me is the variety of dim sum treats. It’s so very nice not to have to leave home for a steamy breakfast of bao buns.

    Of course, the basics would only get you so far without the aisles and aisles of vinegars, sauces, noodles, rice papers, spices, canned lychees, and dried mushrooms. The selection of soy sauces alone can be exhilarating. JD is on the constant lookout for an exotic white soy sauce a fellow chef once lent him. The hunt is half the thrill. On one of our trips I found fine French butter, small production Taiwanese honey, and a can of bubblegum-flavored jackfruit.

    Strategywise, JD recommends starting with a recipe and a list of ingredients. And never be afraid to ask questions, he says. While we stood, obviously confused, in front of a meat case, a sweet older Asian man motioned in a gesture of aid. After a few minutes of pointing and a mix of odd linguistics on all our parts, we at last learned via pantomime that the gelatinous mass we’d been eyeing was beef stomach. We all smiled and nodded, feeling lucky to be in Minnesota. Even in March.

    United Noodles 2015 E. 24th St., Minneapolis, 612-721-6677

    Shuang Hur 654 University Ave., St. Paul,

    651-251-2196; 2710 Nicollet Ave., Minneapolis, 612-872-8606

    Duc Loi 2429 Nicollet Ave., Minneapolis,

    612-870-8684

    M&A Food Store 721 Jackson St., St. Paul,

    651-310-0109

  • Money

    With the weather unseasonably warm last month, I was often out walking the dog after dinner. One evening it was particularly nice outside. As we passed bicyclists, runners, and other walkers, Charlie, my twelve-pound Cavalier King Charles spaniel, took little notice. He was content to enjoy weather that felt more like April than January. Only when we approached a man walking a large German shepherd did wee little Charlie become alarmed, growling and lurching at a dog four times his size. I tightened my grip, and the shepherd’s owner did the same. As we strangled our dogs past one another, we each managed a courteous nod.

    I wondered for the rest of the walk whether Charlie would be so courageous had I not restrained him, and let him go ahead and become an appetizer for that dog. Would that temper his enthusiasm for such brash behavior? Would it result in less eventful walks in the future?

    Last week, I had a conversation with a friend who was desperate to get shares of a red-hot and fairly risky I.P.O. I couldn’t help but recall how this same friend, confiding in me a year earlier, had wanted to cash in his blue-chip portfolio and stick it all in risk-free government bonds. The risks of investing, he said at the time, were imminent. Osama, bird flu, Hillary Clinton; too much impending menace to stay in the market, he opined.

    Thinking back, I remembered how past money-talks with this friend had jumped from paralyzing fear to unmitigated risk-taking, so his jumpiness wasn’t completely surprising. He panicked in 1987 when his stocks sunk, freaked out when interest rates rose in 1990 and 1994, and wanted to pour his portfolio into technology stocks in 2000. In other words, he had often exhibited courage when the weight of the world gave him its thumbs-up. But he became fearful after experiencing financial pain. Most investors are like my friend. They are hardwired to make the same mistakes time and time again.

    There is a sub-discipline within the study of economics called “behavioral finance.” It suggests that financial markets are neither rational nor random for the simple reason that its participants tend to be neither of these things. Most investors make pattern mistakes in the same way my dog is inclined to overestimate his bite, but then cowers for a few days every time he takes a beating. Much in this way, investors get excited when the market goes up, depressed when the market drops, and they have no long-term memory.

    The reality of financial markets yesterday, today, and tomorrow is this: Stocks go up when excited people buy, down when scared people sell. Sometimes we become over-stimulated by the world around us, much like Charlie does, and we end up biting off more than we can chew. We lurch at perceived opportunity. We retreat while licking our wounds. This brand of knee-jerk logic, motivated by the never-ending cycle of fear and greed, is subscribed to, in varying degrees, by every investor. It doesn’t add up in the real world. But it makes perfect sense to my dog.—Howard Punch with John Carraux

  • Rake Appeal { Road

    The point of driving a Toyota Prius isn’t really the driving. If you care about driving as something other than mere transportation, don’t get a Prius. A Prius is a hybrid—not only of gasoline and electric—but also of boredom and pedantry. On the other hand, if what you care about is getting from one place to another in an efficient fashion, the Prius is, to recycle a phrase, “The Ultimate Driving Machine.” (My abject apologies to BMW.)

    There is an aesthetic to driving a Prius. It’s just not to be found within the typical rubric of acceleration, cornering, and style. Our concentration when we’re behind the wheel is on the little colorful touch-screen readout in front of us. That’s where the fun is. That’s where the clever computer tells you when the gas engine is running, or when the battery is being charged, or when the battery alone is propelling the car and the gas mileage is infinite. An alternate readout tells you what mileage you got and how much you recharged the battery in five-minute increments since you last started the car. And a line of text below tells you how far you’ve gone since your last fill and what mileage you’ve gotten since that date a couple of weeks ago.

    So, you don’t bury the tachometer needle on a Prius. You bury the instantaneous mileage bar. Hell, the Prius doesn’t even have a tachometer.

    But, I do protest too much. It is a Toyota after all, and that means it’s a damn good car.

    It accelerates just like you’d expect an underpowered compact car to accelerate, except a little better. The electric motor actually provides a little extra boost when you pop into passing gear. It’s absolutely capable of doing anything you ask on Twin Cities freeways, short of blowing the doors off the guy in the next lane, of course. But for running out to Costco or over to downtown St. Paul, you’re not going to be able to go faster than seventy anyway, and the car is certainly capable of that. Even better, when you are averaging fifteen miles per hour on 35W at 5:30 p.m. you’ll at least get some satisfaction in looking at that little screen and seeing that, for the last five minutes, you’ve averaged seventy-five miles per gallon.

    Overall, the mileage for buzzing around town is probably around forty-five miles per gallon. You can do better if you really take it easy, and you can do worse if you drive it like you normally do. One of the foibles of the Prius’ celebrated hybrid system is that the car always runs the gas engine until the system gets warmed up—at least three miles or so, depending on the weather—and that means the mileage isn’t much better than a normal compact for those short trips. So, if you mostly live and drive in the city, the extra several thousand bucks you’ll pay for this car over what a Corolla or a Civic costs aren’t worth it. But, if you live in the suburbs, where the average trips are longer, the savings will add up. Will they add up in the long run to actual savings? Probably not, even with gas prices where they are now. When Iran’s daily oil production is cut off, though, that extra mileage is going to be a welcome mitigation.

    There is one more reason to buy a Prius . I had the opportunity to experience the car’s stability under stressful circumstances first hand. To make a long story short, my companion was driving when we hit a spot of glare ice, which put us into a seventy-mile-per-hour skid sideways across 35W and into the ditch. Instead of rolling us over and over, as we would have done had we been in, say, an American SUV, the Prius was perfectly stable. In fact, it barely leaned as the electronic skid control system kicked in, applying just the right torque and traction to the wheels to keep us stable in the skid. As we banged to a stop in the ditch, my companion said, “Thank God we didn’t roll.”

    “No,” I replied, “Thank Toyota.”—Oliver Tuanis

  • Health

    Back a long time ago, in the olden days of the last century, we all knew how to respond to a set of enormous fake breasts. We stared. We muttered, “Oh my Lordy.” It was new then, and comical in a grotesque, medically questionable kind of way. Pamela Anderson was nothing if not an absurdity, a fifteen-year-old boy’s dream girl blown up to comic-book proportions. Dolly Parton, at least, had the sense to make fun of her extreme, and extremely lucrative, implanted bosom. “I was the first woman to burn my bra,” she once said, in her girly southern lilt. “It took the fire department four days to put it out.”

    Now, things are much different. You can’t go anywhere without encountering boobs that’ve been inflated, a face that’s been peeled, or a butt on the back end of a tuck. In 2004, according to the American Society for Aesthetic Plastic Surgery, nearly twelve million men and women succumbed to various elective “procedures.” Almost a half million had liposuction. More than 300,000 had their breasts enlarged. Hundreds of thousands more had their eyelids chopped and their noses sculpted. People now walk around with Pete Postlethwaite-sized cheek implants, snipped ears, hair plugs, fraudulent six packs, and lips that look to be melting. It appears that we’ve overcome the aversion to purchasing what nature didn’t, or would never in a million years, provide.

    The question arises, then, as we teeter on the brink of total plastic surgery acceptance: How should the casual observer respond to these sudden changes in the people we know and sometimes love? Because even though Americans are going under the knife in record numbers, we innocent bystanders still seem required to pretend as though nothing’s happened. (It’s no coincidence that teenage girls often ask for breast implants before heading to college, where a new crowd will be none the wiser.) We’re supposed to keep our wrinkly, thin-lipped yaps shut when a once-craggy face suddenly appears taut as the blanket on an army cot, when B cups miraculously turn into double Ds, springing forth from a cocktail dress like beach balls bobbing in a swimming pool.

    There are bodily changes we’re meant to acknowledge, even admire. Like tattoos and purple hairdye jobs. But then, an alteration as dramatic as a new nose is supposed to pass without comment. Perhaps it’s part of our growing collective belief in fantasy, the fuzzing line between truth and fiction, our willingness to be complicit in enormous lies. Spider-Man really can leap from building to building, Saddam Hussein had weapons of mass destruction, and this is definitely my original butt.

    Conventional wisdom dictates that we wait for those who’ve had plastic surgery to mention it first, to indicate whether the enhancement is intended to be noticed. But that seems ridiculously tactful, not unlike the way you’d treat someone with cancer or a mental illness. It certainly would be a relief if the conversational climate were more open, more breezy. Then a person could come right out and ask whether there are crunching noises during rhinoplasty. We could ask if, as plastic surgeons like to suggest, a man with calf implants truly feels like a butterfly released from a cocoon. How refreshing it would be to stop merely observing the sped-up, tilt-a-whirl evolution of the race, and say, “You know, the cleft in your new chin looks like a tiny butt.”—Jennifer Vogel

  • Three Destinations

    Paula and George Lopuch, of downtown Minneapolis, take Red-Handed to a whole new level with three different trips and three different issues of The Rake.

    Africa: Our trip included a one-week safari in Kenya, where we held The Rake up exactly over the equator, much to the amusement of the locals.

    Mexico: San Miguel de Allende, a most beautiful and historic arts colony in the Central Highlands of Mexico, is four hours’ north of Mexico City. This colonial city was founded in 1542, and the central part of town (El Centro) has been preserved as a national monument, no traffic lights, no neon signs, no fast foods, cobblestones, with a magnificent gothic church in the center (see behind my shoulder). Just wish we could have a copy of The Rake sent to us for the four months we’re away each winter.

    Bali: Had a massage almost every day—at ten dollars for ninety minutes, how could one resist? Got in some temple-viewing as well; there are temples and shrines everywhere.

    Paula and George Lopuch

  • Rake Appeal { Home

    Gardening trends come and go. Vegetable gardens were big (literally) when families had great hordes of kids. English gardens had their day—along with Laura Ashley. “Naturalizing,” in the nineties, reflected a permissive era, but proved a natural habitat for neighbor complaints. Without coming right out and saying I wanted to school the scarecrow next door, I sought the horticultural wisdom of Joan Westby, a master gardener at Leitner’s Garden Center in St. Paul. She has a degree in horticulture. She is a professional. She indulged me with the newest and nowest things yet to come this spring and summer.

    These days, “people are looking to create a personal retreat, an oasis,” Westby replied, obviously on familiar ground. “But at the same time, they are very busy and don’t have time for a lot of maintenance. So instead of reworking the entire yard, they’ll extend their indoor living space with a small, restful outdoor space like a patio.” So that four-level deck you built with the kids’ college fund? So last year. Container gardening is red hot. Custom-planted pots, with all your favorite colors and smells wafting around your personal oasis, are the penultimate. (By the way, Leitner’s has been providing this custom potting service for twenty years.)

    And if your patio space truly is an extension of your living room, it’s going to be cluttered. (Wait, I said that, not Westby.) Sure there’ll be the Weber, but there also should be comfy furniture. (Hint: You can tell if the furniture is right by providing your children with some dry paper and a magnifying glass. If the furniture burns up, as natural materials tend to do, it was right. If it just melts and creates hazardous waste, it was wrong.) Further trappings of the outdoor oasis, said Westby, include a birdfeeder, wind chimes, statuary, a fountain, and definitely one of those rococo outdoor candelabras. This being Minnesota, she also recommended a beautiful copper fire pit as the sensible source of warmth.

    Of course, you’ll want to arrange all this stuff in a pleasing and ergonomic manner, which brings us to patio feng shui. The gargoyles and barbed wire should stay in the rec room, where they belong, and keep planters out of direct-energy force fields. (The easy thing about this brand of gardening is that there aren’t many plants.) Anyway, you get the picture—it’s like a living room, but smells better.

    Plagued by déjà vu, I combed my mind for where I’d already spotted the sort of alfresco bliss Westby described. Not in Provence, nor in Sonoma County. It was in Southeast Minneapolis, near the University of Minnesota, in fact. Some trendsetting undergraduates had created a soothing oasis from the ravages of syllabi and Chlamydia right in their front yard with a comfy davenport (circa 1985), several tattered barcaloungers, some tiki torches, and, in a space-saving coup, bongs that doubled as statuary and aromatherapy dispensers.

    Container gardening was definitely going on, though in an important fallow stage—beer cans and plastic cups were growing a life-sustaining agar-like substance rumored to be more effective than Miracle Gro. These visionaries had moved a giant TV/wailing wall to their outdoor retreat, too—which not only provided mesmerizing, low-res images and womb-like sound but also blocked sun, wind, and drive-by artillery. It all came into place a full semester before it showed up on Westby’s radar. Isn’t that the way? Trends, like viruses, germinate, not in the minds of professionals and academics, but rather in the fecund soil of the Undecided.—Sarah Barker

  • Thing

    There was a time, not that long ago really, when a lonely and obsessive-compulsive man, unable to sleep, might have spent hours on his hands and knees, raking and grooming the floors of his apartment with his fingers, venturing into corners and hard-to-reach places to gather handfuls of hair, dust, random miniature tumbleweeds, and wispy nests of inexplicable origin. From this material he might, depending on his level of boredom and stupor, create a series of small, reeking ashtray fires that would be moderately fascinating, if not quite entirely amusing.

    A fellow could easily be defeated by the eternally circulating dander and fluff of this world, by the mysteries of its origins, production, and composition: Where exactly does this stuff come from, and why is there so much of it? How could one man, a man who is in no way even remotely hirsute, shed so much pubic hair, and cast it into so many unlikely places?

    These are all preoccupying questions, questions for which some scientist might provide a satisfactory answer. I am not a scientist. I do not have any satisfactory answers. I can tell you, though, that thanks to the wonders of the Swiffer—a gizmo I adore above all other gizmos—my obsession with monitoring and addressing the ceaseless moldering of my existence and my private space has a new, healthier, more graceful and dignified, and certainly more efficient focus. Swiffing, I have discovered, is great fun, and when you Swiff as aggressively and obsessively as I do (and sweat as copiously as I often do while Swiffing) there are also, I think, aerobic benefits to the activity. The Swiffer is an ideal dance partner, or the perfect companion for a plodding, meditative trance. It’s also already earned its own Wikipedia entry, which I intend to embellish when I manage to actually pull myself away from Swiffing for a time.

    Perhaps you are one of the several dozen poor souls who remain in the dark about the Swiffer, one of the great modern marvels of design and utility. In which case, there clearly is something wrong with you, and in all likelihood you are living in filth. Also, there is really no excuse for your ignorance. The Swiffer is cheap, plastic, and snappy as all get out. It is easy to assemble and even easier to use. It is a magic wand disguised as a sort of stylish mop. The secret to the Swiffer’s genius is its disposable “electrostatic cloths,” each of which is, according to the Procter & Gamble packaging, “textured with deep, V-shaped ridges to trap and lock dirt, dust, hair, and even crumbs.”

    The true Swiffer aficionado knows these electrostatic cloths are reversible, which means you can use the things twice. I’m amazed so many Swiffing enthusiasts don’t know this already. The pleasure of this discovery had nothing to do with frugality and everything to do with confirming that there are still parts of my brain capable of analytical function. The cloths can also, of course, be used as simple and effective handheld dust rags, to clean household items and reach places the Swiffer cannot, although there are very few places the Swiffer cannot reach. I routinely Swiff my walls and ceilings, for instance.

    The “Swiffer family” has now grown to include the Swiffer WetJet, the Super Swiffer, and the Swiffer Sweep & Vac, but I don’t know anything about these recent innovations. I’m more than happy with the basic model, which has transformed my life and provided me with hours of nocturnal enjoyment. I find the compulsion to Swiff is strongest in the small hours, when I am most keenly aware of the impossible battle against dirt and disorder. In those moments, gliding alone around my apartment, I find that the silence of the Swiffer, or rather, its calming, rhythmic sibilance, is perhaps its ultimate virtue in this noisy and degraded world.—Brad Zellar

  • Spain

    Nate Maddux and Mary Schwarz (Minneapolis) introduced the locals of Ronda, one of Spain’s southern “pueblos blancos”, to The Rake over a glass of sherry and some tapas…seen here perched above the town’s old arabic bridge spanning the 300 foot-deep Tajo Gorge.

    The Andalusian town, about an hour north of the Mediterranean, was one of the last to fall during the Reconquista. It was taken from the muslims in 1485 AD, shortly before the king and queen expelled everyone but the Christians (and in doing so, much of the intellectual capital) from the peninsula.

    “Ronda was the inspiration for Hemingway’s violent tenth chapter in ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’…the views from the cliff walls are pretty inspirational for something like that. Dizzying. ”

    Nate Maddux and Mary Schwarz

  • Scotland and England

    Melanie and Patrick of NE Minneapolis write: This picture is from our fantastic honeymoon through Scotland & England. Here we were enjoying the history & views of Rosslyn Chapel, which everyone knows by now is featured in The DaVinci Code. The chapel is ornate and
    entirely made of stone; and it’s location on the hillside suggests there could be something buried below it. Sadly Tom & Ron were not there while we were visiting, but they along with a Hollywood size film crew had invaded this tiny town of Midlothian just outside of Edinburgh only a couple weeks earlier.

    Melanie and Patrick Gilbert