In my imagination, Dr. Watson perambulated towards me under gaslights one day in a London-type fog. His absent friend Sherlock Holmes was playing his violin and waiting for a crime to visit 221B Baker Street. Other intriguing characters emerged from the grayness: William Wallace, martyred champion of Scotland, holding his sword high; an oak ghost created from a tree stump by a chainsaw artist, gloomy opera composer Richard Wagner and a jogger in red enveloped in his own world. The Moorish castle beckoned across Druid Lake as a fable wrapped in a dream.
