August 4, 2014


This being the season of long driving holidays, here is a posting by Neil from the summer the blog started.

Originally posted on Exchange:

In response to higher gas prices, half of Canadian drivers say they have cut back on daily driving, and 45 per cent say they have taken steps to increase gas mileage.

A Gallup poll in the U.S. indicates a higher percentage of Americans (84 per cent) said they have cut back on daily driving and 76 per cent took steps to increase gas mileage.

In addition high gas prices are influencing Canadians’ travel plans. Twenty-six per cent of Canadians said they decided against taking their usual holiday trip this summer, with the highest percentage in the Maritimes (35 per cent) and the lowest in Quebec (20 per cent).

Meanwhile, two-fifths of drivers in the lower middle income range $20,000 to $40,000 are more frequently turning to other means of travel than their car.

Also 45 per cent of Canadians say they are thinking of considering switching to a more fuel-efficient…

View original 43 more words


August 1, 2014


Neil’s thoughts on issues with Russia back in 2008

Originally posted on Exchange:

George Bush paused long enough at the Olympics to blast Russia for invading Georgia. Bush said correctly that Georgia was a sovereign country and Russia had violated Georgia’s territorial integrity and he urged all parties to the conflict to stand down.

Isn’t that a real laugher?. Remember Bush and the sovereign nation of Iraq which posed no threat whatsoever to the United States. Yet Bush and his neo-cons concocted a bunch of charges: Iraq was involved in the 9/11 attack (not true); Hussein was hooked up with Al Quaeda (not true); Iraq had weapons of mass destruction (not true). Armed with these lies Bush ordered a “shock and awe” attack on the sovereign country of Iraq which posed not the slightest threat to the United States.

Wouldn’t you think the “Butcher of Bagdad” would have had the decency to let other leaders deal with Russia, leader like former Canadian Prime…

View original 50 more words


July 28, 2014


Believe it or not, this is the most popular topic, in terms of visitors, that Neil ever wrote about on the blog. What do you like on your pancakes?

Originally posted on Exchange:

Catharine and I often have brunch at a well-known Montreal restaurant named Beauty’s.  We always order the same items.  Fresh orange juice, blueberry pancakes and bacon.  Catharine orders the more  expensive real maple syrup.  I use the regular table syrup and it is perfectly satisfactory to me.

It is true, however, that it is all too easy to misrepresent real maple syrup.  Rigtht now two American senators have a bill in the hopper that would impose tougher sanctions for the marketing of  other syrups as maple syrup.

Table syrup is sickly sweet.  While maple syrup may be expensive, even a small amount transforms a plain waffle or pancake, a simple slice of ham or cube of tofu, or a mustardy salad dressing.

But does Canada do enough to protect maple syrup?  Quebec forbids the use of the word “maple”  or of maple-leaf shapes or pictures, on any bottle that does…

View original 55 more words


July 26, 2014


Here we reblog a post by Neil in 2009 about conflict in Gaza.

Originally posted on Exchange:

Suppose you are physically attacked. How should you respond? The law says your response will depend on the nature of the attack. If the attacker pushes you back, that is one thing. If the attacker uses a knife that is quite another. In other words, the force you use to defend yourself should be proportionate to the force used against you.

These principles apply to the violence in the Middle East between Israel and Gaza. Some context here. Gaza, heavily populated, is roughly half the area of Toronto, with a population closing in on 60 per cent of Toronto’s.

Israel said it began its aerial bombing of Gaza in retaliation for Gaza hurling rockets into southern Israel. After seven days of saturation bombing it is estimated the death toll in Gaza is approaching 500 and the number of injured is 2,000. A U.N. official estimates that nearly 25 per cent…

View original 222 more words

Annie O’Loughlin reunion at the family farm in Montana.

July 23, 2014

Special greetings to the descendants of Annie O’Loughlin who are gathering this weekend at the family farm Sweetgrass, Montana.

Annie was born Annie McKenty. She and Neil’s dad, Arthur McKenty, were two out of five children who were orphaned at an early age during the flu epidemic of the 1920’s (correct me if my facts are a bit skewered). The children were farmed out to separate families and not encouraged to keep in touch with each other.

Annie especially was not-treated by her adopted mother. At a young age, she got herself a ticket on the railway from a cousin and migrated to Montana where she earned her living as a teacher. She then married an O’Loughlin, and she and her husband farmed at Sweetgrass, where the reunion is taking place next Saturday.

Imagine Neil’s delight when he was able to establish contact with Annie’s descendants, I believe with the help of Gerry McKenty. We had always hoped to go out to Montana to meet the family.

And imagine my delight when I was invited to go this year to the O’Loughlin reunion. I bought my plane ticket and was all set to go but circumstances intervened and I had to cancel.

My heart will be there anyway this coming Saturday at 12 noon Montana time when the family from far and near gather on that farm set high on the hillside.

Neil’s dad, Arthur, was lucky enough to be apprenticed to the Shea family, who had a farm on what is still called the Shea line, not far from Peterborough, Ontario. After his return from the First World War, he married the daughter of that family, Irene Shea. Neil later found some of his dad’s letters to Irene when he was overseas. Because of censorship he could say almost nothing about his war experience, but we know he carried a wounded man to safety on his back during that terrible battle of Ypres when so many young Canadian and German lives were lost.

Later, on a visit to Ireland, Neil discovered some of the history of the Sheas, known in Ireland as O’Shea. You can find his article in Montreal’s Irish newspaper Nuacht  on this blog How the Sheas and Neil came to Canada.

Interestingly Peterborough Ontario where Irene Shea gave birth to Neil in the hospital, is named after Peter Robinson, who organised the six ships that brought the Sheas and many other irish families from Cork harbour safely to Canada.

Neil grew up in Hastings, Ontario – a lovely small village at the time, where his dad owned the hardware store. The McKentys, we discovered, came from the Glens of Antrim, in the far north of Ireland.

Greetings to all the descendants of Annie McKenty O’Loughlin.

Catharine McKenty


July 23, 2014


From 2008 an early post on China

Originally posted on Exchange:

Many of the world leaders – Bush, Sarkozy and 78 others- attended the spectacular opening ceremonies of the Bejing Olympics.

But our own prime minister, Stephen Harper, was nowhere to be found. Instead the Canadian delegation was headed by the Foreign Affairs Minister, David Emerson. And almost every story about Harper’s absence referred to Canada’s strained relations with China.

What a pity that Canada is off on the wrong foot with one of the emerging super powers on the world stage. Whereas, Jean Chretien used to lead lucrative trade missions to China, the current prime minister would prefer to remain in Canada and tell lies about Stephane Dion’s green shift policies.

Former Canadian diplomats to China say that boycotting the regime is not the way to go. Quiet diplomacy behind the scenes will do far more to moderate China’s human rights policies than hurling strictures from above and sulking at…

View original 54 more words

What summer sounds do you remember?

July 20, 2014

Vin and John have both raised good points about writing, as of course Neil did.

Several years ago I was told very firmly by a niece of Neil’s that I should be writing about the experience I have describe below. Somehow time flies, and it is curious that the memory of the sound of hand-pushed lawnmower should lead to a whole train of thought. Interesting how the mind works, as Vin says so eloquently. Although it feels to me that writing, like art, comes from a deeper place in the pysche. Plus, of course, with some help from the brain at some point.

It’s as though a vast reservoir of creativity is within each of us, but we have difficulty accessing, until like Neil, we keep at it long enough so it just flows.

It was so much fun working with Neil on our ski book. He simply took the 300 pages of oral history I had collected, edited it and wove it in with all sorts of other interesting stuff into one smooth-flowing paragraph after another.

I mention this to encourage all aspiring writers of whatever age never to give up.

I was also told by a wise friend not to discuss what I was writing while I was actually doing it. Not to dissipate the energy it takes. What do you think of that advice?

What summer sounds do you remember from your childhood?

A conversation at lunch reminded me that whenever I hear loons calling, I remember summer at my mother’s cottage at Lake Simcoe. There I was, playing yet another game of prisoner’s base or baseball with some of my fifteen cousins; or trying to learn to dive head-first into the water off a diving tower which terrified me; or falling happily off the old upturned canoe which we used as a make-shift raft.

Thanks to the generousity of my uncle Goldie, who hired a swimming teacher Mr. McCutchen, I learned to swim, which still stands me in good stead.

And thanks to my twin cousins, Bob and Lou (Robert and Louis if we are being formal), one fine day these two characters (five years older) decided to maroon their cousin, me, on the small family raft anchored about 20 feet out from the shore.

They thought they’d scare the living daylights out of me. And indeed, my cousin Lydia’s grandmother Mrs Bentley, was jumping up and down on the shore clinging for dear life to her open umbrella, shouting at the top of her 75 year old voice. ‘Come back, you dreadful boys.”

In fact, I was in seventh heaven, there on the raft in solo glory, out of reach of all grown-ups, picturing my seven year-old self sailing down the Mississippi with Mark Twain’s young hero Huckleberry Finn.

This train of thought about summer sounds started today during a luncheon conversation with a friend who had a gardener to do his lawn.

Neil was the gardener in our house. The house itself was located in the middle of an apple orchard on the original farm in what is now Victoria village. When it became our home there were still three old apple trees in the backyard, inhabited by a family of squirrels, who would turn somersaults for no good reason, much to our delight.

The lawn had a way of growing very fast in the summertime. Neil went out immediately to the Salvation Army and for 25 dollars purchased one of those old-fashioned lawn-mowers that you have to push quite hard to make the blade turn properly. He worked non-stop up and down under the critical eyes of the squirrels, until the last blade was mowed. Then out came his deck-chair and three or more newspapers.

I can still hear the pleasant sound of that old lawnmower, combining with the heavy scent of newly-mown grass.

That smell of summer grass is connected in my memory with the smell of newly-mown hay on my grandmother’s farm, Donlands. I grew up there until I was ten, with my mother, two aunts, an occasional uncle and my beloved grandmother, Lydia Orford Fleming, who died in India at the age of 70.

The farm was on the east side of Don Mills road, with fifty-six cows in a big barn where the hay was also stored and a maple grove stretching down to one branch of the Don River.

Early in the spring, I used to love to walk (about age three) beside my granny, as she inspected the beds where auld Dick, a retired sheep-herder from Scotland, had planted tulips, and then later in the lower field, fresh asparagus. It was a spacious way to grow up.

Amazingly, I was allowed to wander all over the acreage with little supervision – something not possible today. I would spend hours riding on the hub of the big red tractor, driven by Angus the farm foreman as he ploughed the back fields. To my delight the Aga Khan has bought 17 of those Donland acres for of his museum of Diversity. Of course, those broad fields have long since disappeared under concrete.

When I was seven, my beloved granny Fleming left on her third journey by sea to India. She was involved there in medical services for women, raising money for a whole village around one of the hospitals. Her daughter, my aunt Evelyn, practised as a surgeon for twenty-five years in India. On my seventh birthday, in September 1937, we received the sad news that our granny had died in India in Aunt Ev’s arms. Her coffin was brought back the long way by ship. I can remember it piled high with flowers in the living room at Donlands.

A year later, when I was about eight, I was alone one evening in my tiny room at the top of the stairs in that old field-stone house that was my home. As I leaned out of the window the strong smell of the Petunias, planted by my grandmother rose up from the flower-bed beneath my window, blending with the soft persistent hum of the insects. The sun was sinking away on the left-hand side, from the big barn to the north I could hear the cows stirring restlessly in their stalls as one by one they were being milked. An occasional calf would ball its’ heart out.

As I sat there leaning on my elbows on the window sill, I was wrapped in silent connection with my friend, the great Dutch elm tree, which spread its’ arms up towards the sky where the first evening star was just appearing.

The grown-ups were downstairs having dinner in the long dining room with windows open on the garden. Uncle Murray presided at the head of the table, in full evening-dress. His sisters wore their long evening gowns. My uncle had Amos and Andy going full blast on the radio so he wouldn’t have to listen to the twitter (as he saw it) of his three sisters. My mother would soon come upstairs, smelling of meat and potatoes, while the plates were being cleared for dessert, to tuck me in for the night. Meantime, I was on my own, completely absorbed the smells and sounds around me, and intent on communing with the great elm.

Gradually I could sense a whole vast universe opening up, as though the whole back of my head and body had become transparent and my spirit could reach up to the stars and beyond.

At that moment, I knew with complete certainty that I was being held and I was being loved.

It was a certainty that would be shaken and tested many times in my life, but that returned in full force in intervals when I most needed it.

Tuesday writing conversation

July 15, 2014

To my surprise I was sitting in a restaurant this morning, enjoying a cup of Mocha coffee and having a riveting conversation about writing and all its’ possible permutations and combinations with a young waitress I had never met before. Earlier this morning I had been thinking about Barbara Moser’s comment about Neil (Barbara is publisher/editor of Montreal’s Senior Times) she wrote “He’s edgy, he’s provocative and he’s ours.”

This is a comment about Neil who wrote a column called Pitstop every month for the Senior Times newspaper here in Montreal.

Well, wouldn’t you know I was sitting in a dentist’s chair earlier today while my dentist described his patient, Neil, in similar terms “We had the craziest and best arguments about all kinds of subjects. Sometimes Neil would rise half out of the chair, sometimes he was furious with my point of view, but if my argument made sense, had some logic to it, he’d admit it. My sense was that these discussions owed a great deal to his Jesuit training, how to formulate an argument clearly.”

Well, why should I be surprised? There was himself, my husband, never happier than when he found himself in the midst of an argument, even in the dentist’s chair!

Neil also loved to write, starting from the time he entered an oratorical contest aged nine. I found his original hand-written version among his papers in an old black suitcase that had been stored unopened in our cellar for some twenty years. The title was “When Grandad was a Boy” and will be included in the book about Neil being published later this year by Shoreline Press in Montreal with veteran journalist Alan Hustak as editor.

Over the years, Neil tried his hand at all types of writing – at age fifteen he became a stringer for the Peterboro Examiner under Robertson Davies. He went on to write 5 books which you’ll see <here>

I had the fun of working on two of these books with him. From the time I was ten I had scribbled stories and playlets for my cousins and friends. Never in a million years did I expect to write a book. Too much work, I thought, as I watched Neil hour after hour at his typewriter (later his computer of course).

Has anybody else reading this felt the same and left bits of writing hidden away in a cupboard?

I did recently get an iPad but I see myself as more-or-less computer illiterate. And when I did find myself compelled to write a book (launched at my 79th birthday with the best Irish band in the city), believe it or not the whole thing was written by hand. Years ago, in 1970, I had started typing lessons, then landed a job as speechwriter for the Ontario Minister of Education, complete with secretary. End of typing lessons. I was working six days a week, researching, writing and rewriting, to keep up with my boss who was a splendid orator, when I met Neil on the dancefloor.

Two weeks after our August honeymoon in 1972 he landed the job as Editorialist for CJAD, known as the best English-language station in Montreal. We moved lock, stock and barrel down the 401 to Montreal. He would be writing editorials in one corner of our tiny apartment on the 21st floor of a building behind the old Montreal Forum, while in another corner I was scribbling a story for the Reader’s Digest. I had landed a job there as researcher, then was lucky enough to be sent to Quebec City to write a piece for their Explore Canada book.

Another piece I wrote, about 2 Quebec children’s writers, never got published, but it landed me a rewarding experience as literary agent for one of the sisters, Suzanne Martel. Then one of her publishers, Heritage, asked me to take all his French-language children’s books to sell to libraries and bookstores in Toronto. I ended up collecting all the new French-language children’s books from his and other publishers at the Christmas Salon du Livre, lugging them on the train, and having a ball going around Toronto to sell them. This gave me enough money to visit my mom in Toronto every 2 months. That experience also stood me in good stead when Michael Price of Price-Patterson published our book on the early days of skiing in the Laurentians and Montreal (Skiing Legends and the Laurentian Lodge Club, now available on Amazon as book and ebook). We had more fun tootling around with the trunk of our car loaded up with copies, to all the local bookstores in the Laurentians, Montreal and Toronto. Thanks to Neil’s skill in writing, this book became a best-seller, and won the international Skada award 2002 for the Best Skiing History at Vail, Colorado.

Working on this book with Neil and going to Ireland with him earlier ( a first for both of us) must somehow had an encouraging effect on my own interest in writing.

Neil had been asked to write the biography of a remarkable Benedictine Monk, John Main, who had been invited by Bishop Crowley to found a monastery right in the heart of Montreal, based on an ancient tradition of silent meditation found in early Christianity. This, at a time when many English-speaking Montrealers were leaving the city in the wake of the FLQ crisis.

Going to Ireland sparked Neil’s interest in his own O’Shea ancestors (on his mother’s side) and my determination to find the farm that our Fleming family (on my mother’s side) had left in 1847, in the midst of the famine. Neil’s family were Catholic, O’Sheas from the south and McKentys from the Glens of Antrim in the far north. My family were Northern Irish Protestant, from the Dromore/Omagh area, not all that far from the Glens of Antrim as I realised later.

Those visits to Ireland with Neil strengthened my awareness of the riches of Irish history, far deeper than sectarian differences that in many cases had economic and political causes.

The long-term result was that the book I eventually wrote, Polly of Bridgewater Farm – an unknown Irish story – was reviewed in both Catholic and Protestant newspapers and accepted into Catholic, Protestant, and integrated schools in the North.

A Dublin broadcaster told me he had never realised that Protestants suffered along with Catholics during the Famine,” the Great Hunger” as it has been called. I was asked to read from the book by the mayor of Monaghan at the first ever memorial in their city of the Irish Famine. And an Omagh school principal wrote me that “we need more books like this, that speak of hope in the midst of adversity.”

All the above experiences have shown me the power of each of our stories, to build connection with other people, and to bridge differences of outlook, age and background. Also the importance of making sure these stories don’t get lost.

This raises questions about writing. What kind of writing interests you most? Have you tried your hand at poetry? Writing your family story or a novel? Trying a short story?

Have you done a lot of essay writing? Is anything of this a labour of love or a drudge? Do you re-write?

Have you done an article for a student newspaper or any other publication?

I loved Vin Smith’s story of his 40 books, some published, some not.

Have you tried to get a book published, what was your experience?

When Neil wrote his memoir, The Inside Story, I tried 40 publishers without success. Some would say “maybe in a year’s time” then someone gave me the name of Judy Isherwood, founder of Shoreline Press. I will never forget what happened next. But that is a story for another time.

Memories of Neil

July 10, 2014

Catharine writes:

This piece grew, as far as I can tell, out of Neil’s notes for his speech to a graduating class at Loyola High School in Montreal, sometime around 1998. What an evening that was – with all the students and staff celebrating this milestone. Neil had been asked to give that keynote speech by Father Eric McLean, president of the Loyola community.

I sat riveted in the audience, as Neil spoke without a single note, you could hear a pin drop. It seemed that he later expanded the subject in this written piece which I found among his papers (this is part 2).

Part two and final



How does one turn this situation around?  How does a person develop his or her own map for the journey?  Not easily.  Not by any more external band-aids or success stories.  The outer journey (with the wrong map) must be replace by the inner journey using the map that enables us to become the person God intended us to be.  But how do we move from outer accomplishments (which like drug require stronger doses) to an interior journey that deals with our dis-ease in a fundamental and permanent manner ?

This is a movement from disliking ourselves to liking ourselves, in my opinion the most fundamental spiritual transformation imaginable.  I think the first step is a total revulsion at the unreality of the way we have been living expressed perhaps in a cry from our inner depths,” I just want to be real”.  My own experience is that a crisis of some sort may be required to get us to this existential honesty, something along the lines described by the American Jungian therapist, James Hollis, as the ”swamplands of the soul”.  These include loss, depression, grief, loneliness and betrayal.

Some of us, at any rate, must hit what AA calls ”an emotional bottom” wherein we realize we are powerless, that our lives have become unmanageable and we must reach out for help. It is in this ”bottom” that I believe we take the first decisive step in beginning to draw our own map.  It is a marvelous paradox that when we become vulnerable we also become able to grow from the inside.  In this sense, God does indeed write straight with crooked lines. Or as the Canadian therapist, Marian Woodman, puts it, ” God comes through the wound. ”

How do you know when you are living out of your own map?  Let me suggest a few simple test, so simple you may think them jejune.  Believe me they’re not.  consider the following :

1) A friend calls you on the telephone to invite you to a party.  You tell the friend you’ll get back to her.  The reason for your delay is not to consult your agenda.  The reason is that you don’t really want to commit yourself until you’re sure another, more interesting invitation doesn’t turn up.  You are not living out of your own map.  The relevant advise is ”Move in a straight line.”  Only those who habitually live out of their own map are mature enough not to continually hedge their bets but to move in a straight line.

2) Another friend calls on you to take on a project of some kind.  You hesitantly say yes, not because the project really interest you (and you already have too many projects on your plate) but because you don’t want to displease your friend.  You are not living out of your own map.  Only those who do feel really comfortable saying ”no” when ”no” is the nature of the response.  How and why a person says ”no” is a fairly accurate test of whether that person is living out of his or her map.

3)You do something in public, e.g. a talk, a presentation, an article.  There is very little or no reaction from others.  You are inordinately discomfited by this lack of response. You are not living out of your own map.  To change the image, you are still dancing to the music played by others.

There are many other examples of not living according to your own map and I expect you can come up with many of your own.

Drawing your own maps is not a decision, an act of will.  It is a process which requires awareness, demands patience but is truly liberating, And blessings on your journey.

Neil McKenty

February 15, 1999

Memories of Neil

July 9, 2014

Here an another text from Neil :



Once I was hosting a radio phone-in program when the question was, ‘How do you get on with your mate driving in the car?’ Calls were a riot. Most of the callers, especially the women, recalled incidents when their husband got lost.  The reaction was invariably the same. First the husband denied he was lost;  the he refused to stop the car and ask for directions;  finally in a fit of pique, he angrily declined to look at the map.

That program got me thinking about maps. Of course, if you’re lost its stupid not to look at a map and figure out where you are.  But suppose you didn’t have a map. Or something worse, you had the wrong map.  Imagine, for instance, you live in Montreal and you are motoring to Boston.  Everything’s fine until you arrive in Beantown.  Then the whole trip begins to unravel.  You can’t find your hotel, you can’t even find the name of the street your hotel is on.  You pore over your map.  You can’t find a single name or reference point that makes any sense.  You continue to drive around aimlessly, bewildered, growing more anxious and angry by the minute, totally frustrated.  Finally, you spot a policeman.  You stop and show him your map.  He looks at you quizzically and says it’s no wonder you’re lost.  You’ve been driving frantically around Boston.  But you’re trying to follow a map of Detroit.  You have the wrong map.

Isn’t that how many people go through life following the wrong map?  And if that’s the case (and experience suggest it is) then is it any wonder that so many of us are anxious, bewildered, angry frustrated and ultimately lost?  Is it surprising that we experience a chronic inner dis-ease, that we are not comfortable in our skin and that we expend enormous energy trying to disguise this condition from the outside world? 

Of course, we are now talking about an interior map, a map that relates to the landscape of our own psyche, the topography of our innermost soul.  So where did we get this defective, inaccurate map that has led us down so many blind alleys, cul-de-sacs and roads that went nowhere?  In my case the map I followed for many years goes back to my boyhood.  What’s wrong with that?  Nothing, except the map was drawn by other people.  From as long as I can remember I was trying to live up to the expectations of other people: my parents, my priest, my teachers and, to some extent, the community in which I lived.

Trying to live up to the expectations of others never works because (in your own mind at least) whatever you do, however much succeed, it is never enough.  The bar is continually being raised.  What this leads to is not a genuine sense of accomplishment but an oppressive sense of failure. We can never do enough.  And it’s not far from feeling that we are failures to feeling that we are unlikeable.  Not just that others don’t like us but, fundamentally, we don’t like ourselves.

This is a recipe for inner dis-ease.  And disguising that dis-ease from others and even from ourselves becomes our objective.  We desperately try to project an image that all is well, we can manage, we are a success (as we well may be), we have a great social life and scads of friends.  And if these external accomplishments do not anaesthetize the inner pain for long (which they don’t) well some of us try a quicker method, chemicals of some sort. A double martini or a snort of coke will deaden our dis-ease a lot faster than making a successful speech or writing an acclaimed article.  But whether it’s alcohol or drugs or success we are all, in a sense, addict, trying to fill a spiritual hole with a material reality.

Which brings us back to maps.  At the core of the problem is an instinctive sense that we are not being true to ourselves, that we are not living out of our own natural bent, not, in the words of Joseph Campbell, ”following our bliss”.  Instead our lives are still governed by external expectations, by maps drawn by other people.  To be specific, think of the tortuous journey of a man who really wants to be a writer but instead has become a priest.  Or a woman who wants to be an artist and finds herself doing a doctorate in bioethics because that’s what she thought her father, an eminent doctor, wanted her to do. I think the word hypocrite is relevant here, not in a moral sense but in the root from the Greek, hypocrite meaning ”actor”.  It’s a dreadful burden to go through life being an actor, following the wrong map.

… Second and final part to follow.



Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 88 other followers