Huttonian was desperate to play golf today as the golf c course is closed from tomorrow for the Irish Seniors championship. But Mr Fish, helping out at the weather centre with his former colleagues on strike, sent most appalling weather at seagull fart this morning. Wet, Wet, Wet. Undaunted I put on all my wet weather finery-the absolutely waterproof jacket, the keep you dry all night trousers, the drip proof countryman's hat and the lace up not too camp golfing shoes and set out. Having waded to the first tee I found that I had no competition for the course. Green dripping and empty. And I played rather well with frequent wipings of the glasses with increasingly soggy, twice recycled loo paper. The wind was minimal and as Mr Fish returned to his retirement and to his MBE encrusted casual gear the rain relented and the sun very nearly came out. I played better, and started to be aware that I was still alone in this golfing paradise -the No 2 Course in all these islands was all mine as was its companion course running along side it. Thrushes yes, blackbirds most certainly, the odd eagle (as my putts dropped in) but homo sapiens no. How wimpish people must be I thought not to come out because of a wee bit of damp-now all gone.
The mystery deepened-I golfed on-alone and no one in sight anywhere apart from the odd greenkeeper stalking the fairways astride his machine-mobile phone clenched to his ear, a slightly damp ciggie gently smoldering. Then the truth hit me. The course was closed-too wet to allow the hackers on in case its condition deteriorated before the championship tomorrow. And only I was out breaking the cardinal rule of all cardinal rules-omitting to read a tiny little notice board beside the first tee which would read 'COURSE CLOSED' (Keep off being the sub text-that means you Huttonian as the sub sub text.) I could be drummed out for this, my putter ceremoniously broken across the knee of the Captain or at least a public lecture from the Course Warden. Accused of willfully reducing the standard of the Royal County Down (PBUI) to No 3 in the British Isles,I thought I should pick up my ball and sneak back the way I had come but keeping to the bushes-gorse and whins for cover. Then to my relief I saw four lady golfers striding out in the distance. Hurray the course was now open as the weather had improved or someone had over powered the warden, tied him up with special RCD red tape and thown away the notice. Or something. But I was not alone in my guilt. Play on. And I did.
