Rambling the Heugh
    ------------------

    My host announced that he had procured for me a rare privilege.
    I would be permitted to accompany him to his club. Club or sect,
    it is not clear to me how to describe it. Its reception hall
    can only be described as a pub, or a bar; a touch on the
    luxurious side, but quite lively. "Presently" my host said,
    "we shall go through to the heugh. Now remember, do not show
    any surprise. Simply comport yourself as you might at a funeral,
    keep any questions till we are back here again, and above all be
    relaxed. All you have to do is copy me".

    We left by an inconspicuous door which gave on to a short
    stone corridor, at the end of which steps led down to a door
    and through that a small windowless auditorium, rather austere
    and without decoration. We entered at the top tier of seats,
    facing the "heugh", a blank wall opposite the door, painted
    in faded green, that extended from the ceiling high above us down
    to a depth that was obscured by a long wooden barrier erected in front
    of the lowest tier. The room was oddly proportioned, being higher
    and wider than it was long. A dozen or so elderly members sat
    gazing at the heugh. A few turned to look at us as we entered.
    I followed my host and sat down next to him, wondering what was
    going on. Nothing, it seemed. Nobody said anything, nor did there
    appear to be the restlessness, the twitching and snuffling that
    is usually found in a waiting room. I began to realize that the
    others in the room were not actually waiting for anything. All
    appeared to be relaxed; they faced the heugh as if attending a
    lecture, some with an expression of concentration, others smiling.
    A number of questions entered my head - were they meditating, was
    this a ritual of some sort, could they hear or see something that I
    could not? I kept myself busy compiling the questions that I should
    ask my host when we got back to the bar. After a while I tired of this
    and I turned to inspecting the room itself as discreetly as I could.
    This exercise, too, was soon exhausted. Occasionally somebody would
    get up quietly and leave; occasionally I could sense that others had
    entered the room. There were no other distractions.

    How we need distraction! Only my inbred fear of making an exhibition of
    myself, the shame of letting my host down, kept me immobile and silent.
    After a while my restlessness departed. My breathing became even,
    and a delightful feeling came over me. I can only describe it as like
    being bathed in cream. I was reluctant to leave when my host started
    to get up. Even back in the bar my well-being persisted and I decided
    to hold fire with my questions.

    "Our little society", my host said, "has no rules but plenty of
    traditions. It is terribly old, and very discreet. Joining, leaving
    are both up to the individual. There is a taboo against talking about
    the heugh in the bar. You may think that rambling the heugh is a
    solitary business. In fact, being among others helps a lot. You must
    wield Occam's razor in drawing any conclusions about us. Religion,
    beliefs, rituals, the supernatural - shave them all away. Some try it
    and never want to be so bored again. Others cannot wait to get back
    to the heugh."

    "Are there any ladies?" I asked. "Oh yes, but no children. As you have
    seen, a certain level of cooperation is required, and it might not be
    fair to demand it of them."

    Others came to join us at our table, and after introductions I listened
    to tales of how it all came about. I will not speak of these details.
    I was at the start of a long journey.