A stranger slowed a weather-beaten Land Rover on a country road, shaded by deciduous trees from the cold early-SPring sunlight. He squinted at a dilapidated road sign, down-shifted with a couple of startling clunks and grinds, and wheeled the old but robust partner of his best days on the road into a rutted dirt one-lane road that wound back and down toward the distant banks of the bay.

A black retriever in the seat next to him yipped cheerfully as fresh smells swept into the car -- rabbit, a whiff of yesterday's horse, squirrels, aspen...a delight to the nose. A trace of felled oak, a touch of...instrument polish? The dog made a mental note. This was a smell he understood from long experience.

He lit a thin cheroot with one large and calloused hand, nodding agreeably at the dog's remark, and with the other wrestled the Rover through dried puddle-holes, over exposed buried rock ridges, and through beds of blown sand and gravel. He was getting close...he could smell it in the air. There would be music.