It's odd how something which at first appears to be a simple idea can lead to a consideration of rather baffling concepts.

I returned to the smithy, to discover that Denion had been keeping himself busy drawing, and often discarding, various methods and devices to dig an extension of the rogue tunnels to Kili. We looked over the parchments he'd produced, discussing the practicality of each.
One he showed me involved a length of rope from which buckets were hung at intervals. Denion explained that his idea was to loop the rope around an upright wooden spar which would be driven into the ground and moved along as excavation proceeded, and the rope pulled by hand to move the buckets around. I asked why the rope seemed to disappear into, and reappeared from, what he'd drawn as a sort of fuzzy blob, and where the other end of the loop of rope was.
That's when he made a comment that set me thinking.
'The fuzzy blob is a portal - the rope goes through the portal, and someone tips the buckets to empty out the rock, earth and mud that's been put in them as digging goes on. The trouble is, I don't know how long the rope has to be.'
'Well,' I replied, it reaches from the point of excavation to the point where the buckets are emptied, and back again. I guess it depends on where the portal leads.'
'But does it?' he asked ... and his words made me realise there's a fundamental property of portals I don't understand.
I sat and sipped on an ale while I considered the matter. 'I'm beginning to see what you mean, friend. Let's see ... a 'chanter summons a portal in Dundee centre, which leads to Milltown. We know how far that is. But through a portal, is the distance the same?'

We talked about the subject for quite a while. There seem to be two answers to the puzzle. If a portal merely transports us from one point to another, then the distance is the same. But if the portal somehow makes the distance between the point of entry and exit disappear, then the distance reduces to a step into the portal, and a step out at the other end.
It depends on how the portals work, I reckon. A portal might make our steps longer so that we travel a long distance in a couple of steps. Or it may be that time is changed within a portal, so that what appears to be a normal pace of movement to one passing through is actually an instantaneous travel from one place to another. In both of these cases, the actual distance between two points is unchanged. But there's another possibility. The portal might not be a physical object, just a burst of energy we enter and leave. If that portal has no depth, it may be that the point of exit is somehow brought immediately adjacent to the point of entry, the distance between those two points having been made to disappear.
I started wondering, if the latter case were correct, where the distance between two points might go. But that's totally beyond me, until I have a chance to speak to a few 'chanters about the subject.
In the meantime, I'm left to ponder on a thought that's often baffled people - just how long is a piece of rope?

There was quite a discussion at the Dundee Inn a few nights ago regarding the rogue tunnels. A few of us were talking about trying to dig an extension across to Kili. Broutac was more than willing from the outset to lend his help to any such attempt, but the main problem we could foresee was just what to do with the rock and earth that would have to be removed. Several others joined the conversation with suggestions. Bebhinn offered portals to remove the rubble, though she would have to wait outside while the rogues willing to try the project brought out buckets and emptied them into the portals. The Dead Zone was suggested as a suitable place to dump the rock and earth, or perhaps it could be dropped down into the abyss in the floor of the Inn. Or it could all be dumped into the ocean north of Caern, to form a causeway leading to Kili. I thought at first that by the time the tunnel was finished, the causeway would be too.
On further reflection, I became less sure about that, so I decided to turn to the most practical person I know. I packed a few provisions, and unseen by any in the lands, slipped away to the smithy of my old friend Denion.
It's been quite a while since we spent any time together. Denion is fully healed from our misadventures of several moon-cycles ago, and was hard at work in his smithy when I arrived. I watched as he set metal to the forge and then to the anvil, marvelling at a level of craftsmanship which verges on artistry. I wondered if perhaps I might be able to learn from the smith, and discover some lost secrets for improving my weapons. But as I watched Denion at his work, I realised that he's spent his entire life learning his trade, and his secrets won't be picked up during a short visit. Maybe some time in the future, when I have nothing to do but watch Denion and perhaps help him at his work will give me a chance to grasp some of his methods.
Once Denion's work was done for the day, he produced some food and ale, and we sat outside chatting and watching as the Sunrifter dipped toward the horizon. There's a strange phenomenon that can often be seen at such a time. SUnrifter, as it drops in the skies, seems to grow in size, giving the impression that it is very close.
Denion took a swallow of ale, and nodded toward Sunrifter as it hovered, a large blood-red ball, at the rim of visibility. 'Looks as if you could just reach out and take it in your hand, doesn't it?'
I nodded in agreement, while my mind slipped back over time to a similar conversation with Ellyana. We'd spoken for a while about things that were, or were not, possible. Not about whether those things should or should not be done, just the fact as to whether or not they could be done. To me, those two aspects - possibility and advisability - are totally separate, entirely different from each other, though it's not a view shared by all.
We talked about this and that through half the night, catching up on each other's news. I didn't raise the subject of the tunnel extension I'd envisaged, deciding to leave that for the following day. I'd planned to visit for a few days, so there was no urgency, and eventually we sought our beds.