I live here. I know every Victorian gate of wrought iron: every cobbled road. I can show you secret paths through stands of hundred year old trees. I can tell you what it's like to wander down streets on summer nights: how the way is lit with old, old lamps: how streets begin and end with no regard for logic. I could tell you about manicured lawns, but somehow they're not half as important as the great oak with the face that stares out with benign tolerance. You'll find him. He's been here longer than any of us. Trees. Yes, trees. That's what makes Rosedale... well... Rosedale.