A few thoughts have been accumulating, taking up precious real estate in my diminished cerebral cortex. No overarching themes, just the odd notes of a slightly off-kilter mind at work:
This Links Thing - I'm not a religious man, excepting of course when I'm in the U.K. and Ireland, where I worship daily at the Church of the Links. For those that have not experienced such pleasures I have a simple query: Why the termonfeckin not? You can't imagine what you're missing.... it's simply the best version of the game on offer anywhere, I'll see your Pebble Beach and raise you a Royal Dornoch.
In rereading my Ballyliffin blog I discovered the draft of an unpublished post on the challenges of Golfus Linksus that I'll try to complete and publish, though it's unlikely that I'll have the time until we return home. The short version is that it's far more difficult than parkland golf, with many more variables in play, even in the light breezes that we've experienced this trip. As noted in the prior post, I played quite well yesterday yet finished with an 84 at Portstewart, a seemingly mediocre result for a gent playing off an 8. But one can't avoid a few meltdowns in the course of even the good rounds, and in higher winds we know which direction that score would move.
During our discussion with the two gentlemen at Narin & Portnoo one made the point of how difficult the course would play in more typical winds. I noted that it simply becomes, say, a Par 85 under those conditions, that rather philosophical point being far easier to maintain on the porch with a Carlsberg in hand, but the reader will take my point. I've always thought that the Scottish and Irish links should post the head professional's Estimated Par each day based upon conditions.
But these difficulties offer profound satisfaction when one pulls off a shot, especially one of the linksy variety. In fact, even failure can be good fun as the golf here puts the same-old, same-old character of golf at home into stark contrast.
I've rambled on far too long so I'll just finish with one last point about yardages. It's often said that they're irrelevant here which I don't think is quite right. To me it's just a starting point, from whence one makes a series of adjustments. Though it's even a bit whackier here, as some of the course are metric and some use yards. Most marked yardages (meterages?) are to the front of the green, as rarely does one wish to carry the ball further than that, though beloved Ballyliffin's are to the center.
But not only do the courses change character with the wind, but a single bounce of the ball can change everything as well. On the 15th hole of the Glashedy the other day I hit a perfectly lovely knock-down driver off the tee, which due to an XXXXL bounce off the downside of a mound traveled a gaudy 282 yards....just a wee little stinger. In 2012 I recall hitting a 3-wood that measured 300 yards off the scorecard....made me feel like a big strong man though it left me a devilish 45 yard pitch on which I had no chance.
But I should also note that due to the light winds T and I each finished the Glashedy with the very same golf ball with which we began the day, but you'll not do that in a proper wind.
Kitty Porn - Theresa was back to her old tricks in Ballyliffen, visiting the crazy cat house whenever possible. At one point she met the owner and was introduced to a precious little guy named Tango.
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| A visit to the convenience store for provisions.
The next morning we went back and met Anthony, and saw some of his brood:
 
We keep making new friends in Ballyliffin, of both the two and four-legged ilks.
There's Always One That Doesn't Get the Program: Even in Ballyliffin, it seems:
 I guess the unfortunate soul needed a diagram... Things That Amuse Bloggers - I'm no doubt not like others, but I was curious as to how our GPS unit might handle the Lough Foyle crossing. Quite accurately it turns out:  We're Standing Indeed - Carol and Lowell treated us to a first last evening, a rugby match between their beloved Ulster Men and an Italian team named Zabre. We were heretofore rugby virgins, but were gently guided by our hosts, who are quite mad about the game. 
Despite being an extremely violent game, the crowd was amazingly civil, to the point of cheering good play by the visitors. The team's fight song, Stand Up For the Ulster Men, will not soon leave our minds, but the strong partisanship was decidedly of the positive kind.
The stadium has recently been upgraded at significant cost, although still small by U.S. standards. But that lends an air of coziness to it, and there's not a bad seat in the house.
The home team has several new South African imports, and expectations are high. The Italians did not put up much opposition, so the crowd departed in a contented state of mind. As part of the package tour, Carol and Lowell provided us Ulster Rugby hats, complete with the red hand of Ulster, which we shall wear proudly.
And because the world doesn't stop turning on its axis while we're on vacation, our Balfast rugby match was on the day of Ian Paisley's death. I'm no expert in the politics of Northern Ireland, but Paisely was a firebrand leader of the unionist/loyalist movement at the height of The Troubles (and a tip of the cap to that worthy euphemism), though he later was instrumental in the shared power agreement that ended said Troubles.
Over breakfast this morning we discussed the game, including how the substitute players and trainers (physios, here) run onto the field while play is ongoing. Lowell told a story of a player a few years back who was put off by a physio running onto the field quite prematurely, and decked the poor man when the opportunity presented.
That triggered this puddle of consciousness recollection, which I e-mailed to him after breakfast. Yes, you've seen it a hundred times, but it never gets old, does it?
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Radio Silence - As previously noted, I had hoped to have some information for you from a source in the R&A concerning the referendum on women members (and perhaps the more significant independence referendum as well). It appears, however, that what happens in The Big Room stays in The Big Room, much to my regret.
I did receive one missive from my source, but that wasn't much more than a weather report. I can only assume that he's face-down in his eighth kümmel of the morning, so we'll simply await the announcement of the outcome.
Willow Ridge, Spine Intact - I first heard the Obama story from a friend's e-mail, and the inclusion of Willow Ridge I assumed to be a wee joke. Imagine my surprise to find out that they actually inquire of Willow Ridge, and I can't wait to hear the details when I get home.
I find the request entirely consistent with my sense of the man, utterly indifferent to the existence of other human life forms. As we learned when our friend Glenn encountered him at an Oahu golf course, when POTUS plays no one else plays. Security concerns, you know...
So the request to play Willow Ridge (and of course the other clubs mentioned) implies that they would like the members to sod off, and on a holiday weekend no less... I'm just grateful that our officers understand that it's the members' club.
More Fun With Signs - By now the reader will have recognized my love of signage, and can avert his or her eyes when appropriate. Just a couple for you from the morning's stroll through Portrush, this first one a favorite of the brides. She liked both the nom de music as well as the "More dusty than digital" bit:
And I may be a New York cynic, but I'm guessing there's a catch with this offer:
There's also a nearby town named Ballymoney, which in a perfect world would be the local shtetl.
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