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Lone Ranger

Glen Nevis campsite. Me (Turkish), Batman, Bruce, and Specs, have rolled into the bar. Inside, a place of ale, chips and good chat. Outside, the foothills of Ben Nevis tease of a good hike on the morrow. A chap, Scottish by the accent, drunken by demeanour, talks at us from afar. Puncturing our conversation with anecdotes of his own. A man alone, in need of a connection. There's no connection to be had here. We four are chewing the fat. Having a lark and catching up. It's been a long stint since we have and it's needed. Politeness ensues. Rapport is built (to an extent), so as not to be rude, but we're not here for him. He isn’t part of the plan.

Still, the intruder insists. Moving over to the table, displaying photos and mumbling false truths. Insisting on making his presence known to us, doing what he can to add himself into the equation.

A lone soul up here surrounded by mountains, drinking deep and reaching out.

There's no warmth to be had here my mate. Off you go.

But as the man is silently shunned and forced to retreat (for now), there's a sense of sadness. So easily could these tables we drink on be turned.

Should things go awry, it could be me sat alone, watching others connect.

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