There’s a man who lives in a 1961 Shasta Airflyte on the shore of Loch Ness, and word is he can talk to Nessy. So hike out into the berry-strewn, brambly hills, through herb-laden forests and along crumbling slate crags, until you smell the stewed plum and pepper-crusted venison backstrap. There, he’ll outfit you with a huckleberry-flint bowie knife, vanilla-clove paracords, and an old Polaroid 600, then take you paddling in a dinghy, trying to fathom the boundless depths below.
