With the senior grandchild and her minders back to Lunnon, Huttonian is free to resume his normal lavish golf style on the Royal County Down (PBUI) No 1 course or its junior partner the Annesley Course (MPBUI) If playing a game with my regular partner it is to the Championship, No 1, links we go-members only until 1000 am so no one else on the course and if on my own I make do with what used to be called the Hen Run-now I suppose with Aviator Flu it might have to be renamed the Dead Hen Run, but early days. Despite the £28 per hack- a -round people are beginning to creep back on and I noticed this morning that once again there were three regular solitary users all ahead of meseparatedd by a hole in each case-and I was off at 8-20 am. The first is Trolley Follower. He is fast and with a remote control device tracks his clubs around at a fair lick. Once they seemed to get away-perhaps out of range of the rcd and ended up in the lake on the 17th of the No 1 course. But this morning his progress was measured, controlled and swift. A pleasure to follow.
Second out is usually Snake Killer. Or so it appears that this is what he is up to - from a safe distance. From his actions it would appear the entire rough is swarming with reptiles. His club work is savage and abrupt and some one should tell him that the Blessed Saint Patrick expelled all serpents from the Island of Ireland. I don't know how many balls ( presumably as snake substitutes) he cuts in two but I have found one or two rolling wounded which are ignored by Stalker and his ball finding Alsatian so dire are their condition. But he is also fast on his feet and so also no problem to be behind
Dreamer, No Three in the Pantheon of lone players, is not a good man to be behind. He dawdles along, whistling gently and tentatively and gently nudging his ball in the general direction of the hole. When he becomes aware of my presence through my tactful hacking coughing he tends to panic-pick up his ball and move on to the next tee glancing apologetically in my direction. Then the dream takes over once again and the whole throat wrenching pantomime has to begin all over again. I managed to get past him this morning as he lost his only ball-at least the only ball he allows himself to use. His clubs, I noticed as I roared past in response to his please overtake signal, would have left no change from a grand, his trolley was one of those fully automated £1500 plus, cocktail bar with integrated lap top and Blackberry on wheels, but I suppose you have to make economies somewhere.
I think I'll start 20 minutes later tomorrow.
