Whilst the knitting ladies were happily chatting and clicking their needles, sitting around the village hall table at Clicking Needles on Monday, the door burst open letting in a gust of cold air and Paul.
"Ave yer come to join us?" asked Petrina's mother, gaffawing with laughter at her joke. Knitting, after all, is women's business.
No, he said, he had just come to let us know his wife was sick and could not join us today. He then turned to me.
"Golf on Wednesday?"
Caught on the hop, with 12 hardy Scottish women to bear witness to any lack of stamina on my part, I wimped out, smiled brightly and said:
"Yes, lovely!"
"I'll pick you up at 9.30."
On Tuesday the temperature plummeted to well below zero. A hard frost remained on the ground all day. I stayed bailed up in my cottage in front of the log fire, apart from a few short minutes when I battled across the frozen lawn with the garbage bins and loaded up some extra logs of wood in case this emergency continued for days.
When the alarm went off this morning, I turned over and peered out of the window. This is what I saw:
My first thought was: "Good! Golf cancelled!"
My second thought was: "Maybe not .... maybe they play golf in the snow in Scotland. They probably use bright orange flourescent balls."
My third thought was: "Paul will call." Until I realised he didn't have my phone number. Everything here is done via a knock on the door.
My fourth thought was: "Don't be silly, even if they play with coloured balls, they would plug into the snow so you couldn't hit them out." That settled, I snuggled back down the bedclothes.
Until my fifth thought: "The mats!" You see, because the ground gets so mushy and soft you carry an astro-turf mat with you and place your ball on it each time you hit. Surely not? Surely, they wouldn't put the mats on the snow. Would they?
Taking matters into my own hands I did some judicious research, found Paul's number and rang. His wife answered.
"Sarah!"
"Oh, you recognised my voice?"
"I knew you'd call. I told Paul. I didn't think you'd play in this. He's called the club and he's just packing up the car. I'll pass you over."
Obviously she had me down as a wimp and a piker. I was not having this. So when Paul told me that apparently the course was playable but I was welcome to cancel, I said, fingers crossed behind my back: "Certainly not! I'm looking forward to it."
Bundled up in top-to-toe thermal underwear, ear muffs, two pairs of gloves and hand warmers we set off for 18 holes with another hardy Scot called Gordon, a local councillor recently retired from the oil business. We squelched through the slushy fairways, chipped balls onto frozen putting greens and navigated bunkers with pools of water that had iced over. On The Brig (5th hole) I lost my 5-iron. A bit unfortunate that it was the exact same hole where I lost my camera a couple of weeks ago, I'm beginning to get a bit of a reputation in the clubhouse.
Despite scoring a creditable (or should that be incredible) net 70, never before has the 19th hole been so welcoming or welcome! And once my 5-iron was restored to me, Paul suggested; "Next Wednesday?"
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