Some years ago, I found myself stranded in a guesthouse in the Scottish Highlands after an unexpected storm put an end to my hiking plans. As I buttoned up my coat by the door, the lady who ran the establishment asked me where I was headed. I’d intended to find a fireside drink to salvage the evening, but she shook her head and told me that it was more or less a dry parish, and it was at least an hour’s trek to the nearest pub. I sighed my way back up the stairs to my room, stopping at the bookcase on the landing and borrowing a handful of novels, took them inside and locked the door. For a few moments, I thought about returning and asking her what she had meant by “more or less” but the wind was rattling the window, so I settled in for the night.
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