Miranda Austin walked into the poorly lit pub on a mission. A photojournalist for Citizen Earth, she was up against her deadline with downright nothing to show for her 2 weeks in Scotland.

She surveilled the room: drunk local merchants playing cards on the left, drunk farmers to the right, smoking pipes. At the bar sat three drunk scruffs. Two chatted with the bartender, the third at the far end of the bar, head down, apparently singing. Or moaning. She couldnt tell.

“Ahem,” she exhaled. One of the merchants glanced at her, but then turned to carry on a card game.

Incensed, she tried again, “I said, ‘AHEM’!”

The pub came to a halt and all eyes turned to her, as she demanded.

“My name is Miranda Austin, I am a photojournalist with Citizen Earth…” she paused for effect, “and I’m currently on assignment here in Rowanshire.”

The drunk on the end lifted his head and sang, “Too la roo la roo la roo!!!”

The bartender threw his dishrag at him. “Shaddup, Jimmy, cant you see the lady’s trying to speak?”

A farmer took a long slow drag from his pipe. Silence.

She began, “I’m looking to photograph something with great mystique and history, and I need to do it now. Do any of you gentlemen have a suggestion?”

“Yeah, Jimmys bar tab!”

Laughter bounced off the ancient wattle and daub walls.

Miranda shoulders slumped. She made her way to the bar and ordered a pint.

One of the scruffs at the bar turned to her and said, “Have ye been out to the barrow, miss?”

“The ‘barrow’?” she asked.

“A tomb, miss, built in ancient days. 2000 years it’s been, mysterious as anything you can imagine. Fine night for it too. Clear sky, a bit of mist about.”

“A tomb you say?” Her interest piqued.

“Yes, built by ancient clans. Witches and warlocks conducted strange ceremonies within it.”

“How close to this ‘barrow’ do you think I can get?” She took a small black book and short pencil from her bag.

“Oh, quite close. Some say if the wind is right you can still catch a wiff of death blowing off the mound.”

“Where is this barrow?”

The other scruff leaned forward and grabbed the first man’s arm, “No, John, you mustn’t reveal its location.”

“I’ll buy a round for the house for the location!” Miranda exclaimed.

She turned to the rest of the pub, “A round for the house!”

A great “HURRAY!” swept the room.

“Ok miss, but be sure you don’t stay long. People sometimes don’t come back!”

The bartender poured pint after pint as the scruff scribbled a map on a napkin with her short pencil.

“Thanks so much, mister!” She put her camera away and rushed out the door.

After a moment one of the farmers ambled up to the bar.

“You sent her to my compost heap, didn’t ya?”

The bar erupted in laughter.

“Gordon, that thing is so big you could fertilize the lower half of Scotland!”

“I’ll have to call my wife and tell her not to shoot the poor girl.”

Laughter rang out through the village for the rest of the evening.