Death by a Thousand Cuts

It is usually quite easy to get on the course at Duns (MPBUI).As long as you can -avoid the Cardiac Three, the lone lady from Gavinton-but she is on the course at 7am so not a problem, the Golfing Societies:those mostly English hackers enjoying the ‘Freedom of the Fairways'-half price Borders golf-ladies day, club competitions, youngsters just out of school, and casual and unexpected visitors, you should be alright. Today as we teed off, as registered, at 2.32 (230 pm was not available as the club offers 8 minute slots irrespective of who else has booked, when, and even if there is no one due in the next two hours)) we seemed to have a clear course in front of us. Bliss.

But suddenly with the abruptness of low flying aircraft the fairways were loud with the sound of motor mowers. Not your bog standard sit -on -and- green- stripe- your- chemically- enhanced- swards but massive, menacing bristling with chattering teeth, roaring, oil vapour farting monsters. Intent in cutting everything in the vicinity and Golfers were a nuisance to be ignored if not mashed underwheel. Playing one shot I had a machine emerging from behind me, heading in my direction at 40 mph – a second in front of me in line of my shot, heading towards me at 39MPH and a third cutting a neat path diagonally across my bows-45MPH with the strong following wind. Apparently 230-4 pm on a Monday is a quiet period with the morning players snoozing in the club house, the cardiac three in intensive care around the bar and the ladies not due out until 5ish. So the quiet period is rapidly converted into a hideously noisy one. Occasionally, very occasionally, the courtesies would be observed and the laughing cavaliers would , rein back their steeds to allow you to take your shot but exhibiting great impatience, revving their 160 bhp engines, dreaming of the Jim Clarke Rally, which one of them may well have won over the weekend in his souped up
yellow striped,balloon tyred mower.

As suddenly as they had come they disappeared. Tea beckoned. Too late for my partner whose nerve was broken and he walked in, to keep an appointment, leaving the course to silence and to me I was just addressing an important shot when suddenly a roar to my left. No not the return of the Gnarled Old Greenkeeper on his mower, but an uncertified idjit in adjoining garden on his adolescent apparatus mowing an already scalped lawn. His start up coincided with my down swing which jerked out of its usual perfect parabola propelled my Titleist 4 into the rain forest to the right of the fairway. I told him what I thought of him in no uncertain terms-but over the roar of his 4.5 litres he heard not a word

But if he can lip read : Sir be assured

I really mean every word about you and your unmarried parents.

(Image is of mower free 12th hole)

Labels: Duns Golf, Jim Clarke Rally, Motor Mowers

  ¶ 6:00 PM